Harry Potter and the Trials of Error
by Jade3
Summary: The Ministry of Magic faces destruction from corruption and fear. The forces of the Dark Lord remain eerily inactive. Only Lily Evans knows why, but dead women tell no tales. Now her son must speak for her...but first, Harry must decide if he wants to.
1. Prologue

_Yes. It's true. A prologue._

_Unfortunately, nothing more will be coming out for a month or so. You see, I'll be in China. My official hiatus. :-P Sorry. *runs for her life*_

_A general A/N: This is a sequel to Harry Potter and the Affair of the American. If you've any desire to understand this story at all, I -strongly- suggest that you read its prequel. http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=475193_

_Enjoy!_   
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Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, sighed and pressed his forehead against the glass panes of his window. The neat and tidy scene of Privet Drive was streaked with the receding rain of a summer thunderstorm. A final rumble sounded in the distance. Harry closed his eyes and shifted to a new area of cool glass. 

Listening to the water running down the roof was a comfort. It was a soft, murmuring sound, and for the next few minutes, it could become a constant in his world. For a moment, Harry considered padding downstairs, picking the lock of the cupboard beneath the stairs, and taking his Firebolt out to fly in the cool, rich air that came in the wake of a storm. A smile tugged his lips. It was a new kind of smile, one that had been developing ever since the outcome of the Triwizard Tournament, but he had never become fully aware of it until now. It was a sardonic, self-deprecating expression, the kind that came from knowing things that the rest of the world didn't. Harry wondered if Dumbledore knew what kind of information was in the packet of papers that Rysk had given him (how to pick almost every kind of lock without magic, for instance), or indeed, if he knew that Rysk had given him the packet at all. 

Even a year ago, Harry would have believed that he did. Now he was sure that the Headmaster did not. Albus Dumbledore was very powerful and very, very old, but not infallible nor omniscient. He knew now that there was a fine distinction. 

Harry drew back from the window and looked at the clock on his wall. He had retrieved it from the garbage after Dudley had thrown it out, making a scene worthy of a two-year-old and yelling at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia for getting him a broken clock. Harry had to give him credit: Dudley had actually tried changing the batteries before throwing a fit. It was a welcome moment of laughter when (secretly in his room, of course) Harry had simply put the positives and negatives at their proper ends and the second hand had started ticking. It had been running smoothly for a week, and now read one in the morning. 

Harry shifted his shoulders, fancying that he could feel something weighing down upon them. He stared ahead through the rain to the house across the street, where Mrs. Figg, the crazy old bat who always showed him albums upon albums' worth of her cats, usually lived. This summer she was away on vacation to nurse her arthritis. Harry knew this because he had heard Aunt Petunia complaining loudly that there would be no getting rid of "that _boy_". 

He sighed. It would have been a comfort to have the old lady still occupying that house across the street. It would have even been a comfort to know that she truly _was_ on vacation to nurse her arthritis. Instead, as far as Harry knew, Arabella Figg was still with the rest of the Order of the Phoenix in Ireland, tersely waiting for Voldemort to make a move. Harry felt completely cut off from the magical world, and it was nerve-wracking, as everyone he cared for was still trapped in it and everything that would shape his life this summer was entangled in it. 

"Hm." Even though he didn't turn to look at it, Harry was again aware of the presence of the clock. "It's Sunday," he murmured to himself. _Nine more hours to go._

A loud disturbance, as though a jet engine had been turned on to full blast, ripped through the hallways and into Harry's thoughts. He flinched before shooting the doorway of his room a glare and rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Dudley was snoring again. 

Deciding that he had better leave the house before he broke and sent two spitwads up his cousin's nostrils, Harry pulled on a set of warmer clothes and crept downstairs. His eardrums were sore by the time he reached the foyer. As he knelt down in front of the cupboard beneath the stairs and felt for the doorknob, he silently wished that Professor 'Harrison's' packet had included a way to use magic over summer vacation and escape detection from the Ministry. _I'm sure she knows how to do that, too,_ thought Harry sourly. 

Harry had practiced picking the lock to the cupboard almost every night since arriving at the Dursleys'. It had been difficult at first, and even now still required a measure of patience and concentration. It took him a good three minutes to succeed, partially because half his mind was occupied with thoughts of Rysk. He wondered if she would still be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts next year. Even though he had no real reason to think so, Harry suspected that she would not be. For some reason, he was vaguely disappointed. 

Then he thought of Severus Snape. Before he could put the guilt out of his mind in time, his hand slipped and the pins of the lock fell back into place with several soft _clicks_. Harry swore under his breath and began jiggling Aunt Petunia's hairpin in the keyhole again. 

At length Harry finally heard the lock give. He opened the cupboard with a cautionary glance up the stairs. Dudley was still snoring like a volcano, but neither Uncle Vernon nor Aunt Petunia had awakened. No doubt they had cotton stuffed in their ears. Harry smirked and ducked inside. 

His Firebolt and invisibility cloak were the only things he kept stowed away. Uncle Vernon had long ago decided that keeping Harry from his homework over the summer would not please Harry's godfather. Harry needn't have dropped the hints that if Sirius was not pleased, no one in this household would be very pleased. He only locked up his broom and cloak so that Dudley wouldn't get his fat pudgy hands on them. 

Harry eagerly groped in the dark for his broom. Flying for an hour or so would clear his head, and he was willing to have bags under his eyes in the morning in exchange for that. Even Uncle Vernon had made (barked, more like) a brief comment about how Harry always looked exhausted at breakfast. He supposed it was true, but he wasn't about to tell the Dursleys that he could never sleep, plagued by thoughts of the Weasley family and Percy's upcoming trial. When he did doze off...there would be the dreams. 

Sometimes, he would sit bolt upright, staring wildly about his room and damp with cold sweat. He would have no memory of his nightmare. But his scar would be burning. 

"Ow." He had grown taller than he realized. Harry brought his hand up to rub at the top of his head, where he had bumped against the cupboard's ceiling. He paid for it with a sharper cry and a hiss of pain when something ripped into the back of his hand. Harry turned around and peered upwards, confused, as he stuck the wound into his mouth and sucked at the rising blood. He felt around gingerly with the fingers of his left hand and found a small metal tab sticking out of the edge where the ceiling and wall met. It was directly above the door of the little room. Harry's brow furrowed. This had served as his bedroom for eleven years, and he had never noticed it. 

He adjusted his glasses, tilting his head, and gently flicked the tab. It bent easily before snapping back into place, vibrating. Then he took a hold of it and tugged. 

A crack appeared in the edge where the ceiling and wall met. 

Harry's eyes widened. He pulled again, and this time, a small panel in the wood slid all the way back to reveal a hole he could easily fit his head through. He reached up into it and felt about. The first thing his hands found was a smooth, dusty surface, perhaps a small box. He slid it back towards the hole and brought it down. It was indeed a box, with a curved lid on hinges. Harry peered. There was something written across the top. 

He backed out of the cupboard, late night flying forgotten, and moved to a window in the living room. When moonlight fell across the red lettering, his breath caught. He blew the dust off of the lid, incredulous. 

There was the name, painted in neat script. 

_Lily Evans_


	2. Come Home

_Sorry this is so short, people. I'm in China, I'm tired, and if I don't freakin' upload now I'm gonna snap._

_Right. Enjoy. :-P  
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_The box would not unlock.

It was an old-fashioned, brass lock; a smaller version of the keyhole spies used to listen through a century ago. It was not Charmed, so far as Harry could tell, but he certainly knew that it was cursed. He had directed more swear words at it under his breath at two in the morning than he had ever used before in his life. Because the "...damn thing!" would not give, no matter how he jimmied with the hair pin. After nearly an hour, when the lock began blurring before his eyes, Harry gave up and simply gazed at his mother's name for what felt like a long time. He raised the box to his ear and shook it. At first, he could hear nothing, and was seized by an irrationally strong fear that it was empty. Then, listening desperately, he heard the faint rustle of parchments.

Excitement and relief were overshadowed by a burning curiousity. Harry gave it one last shake. "_Damn_ it!" He raised his head. The living room clock said two-ten. He frowned. He would need at least some rest, if not sleep, for the morning. He trudged back up the stairs with the box, barely noticing that Dudley had stopped snoring. After a moment, he relunctantly slid the box under his bed before climbing into it and closing bleary eyes.  


****  
  
Two owls flew under the cover of darkness into the trees of Ireland. They flitted nervously from branch to branch, touching the night air with the ruffle of their wings and the occasional soft, low hoot. A terse hush followed. It was broken by the appearance of a man-shaped shadow, so sudden and silent that it seemed to have winked into existence. The owls fluttered down to land on an outstretched arm. As soon as the man had finished untying the messages attached to their legs they took to the air, eager to leave, as though they too could sense the charge in the atmosphere. 

Sirius Black whipped the invisibility cloak about himself once again and stole back to the very edge of the trees that surrounded Deirdre's Grove. He stopped just short of his post. "_Lumos_," he whispered. By the light of his wand he could study the two envelopes in his hand. Both were unmarked, but one was clean and crisp, as though it had never been flown many kilometers over the ocean, while the second was torn and weather-stained. Black tucked the ragged one into his robes, then continued on. 

He came upon Remus Lupin, sitting in the undergrowth and facing the clearing, using a leafy bush for concealment. His arms were wrapped about his too-thin torso, not because of cold, but as an effort to stay awake. Sirius crouched down beside him. "News," he murmured. 

Lupin looked over without surprise as Black revealed himself. "From who?" he replied, whispering more out of habit than any real fear of being discovered. 

"Dumbledore." He handed the letter to his friend, tossing the cloak aside. Remus took it and began to open it after a cursory examination. Sirius watched. Remus was haggard and exhausted, and looked even more so with the moonlight falling across his features. An icy finger dragged down Black's spine. He looked upwards over his shoulder with unease. The moon was but a waxing crescent, but it was still waxing. Sirius glanced back at the other, concerned to the point of anguish. Ever since what had happened in the Alps, something no one ever talked about, Lupin's transformations had become an ordeal surpassed only by the days before the Wolfsbane potion. The werewolf would return to his human form in near hysteria, always shaking, sometimes whimpering, often weeping. Even in the days farthest from the full moon, Remus was quiet and withdrawn at best; his eyes were hollow and he moved as though he expected a blow at any moment. 

Sirius couldn't stand it. Every nervous twitch, every sign of self-loathing in the bowed shoulders, was a reminder of how he had upset yet another touchy mission and forced another to pay the consequences. 

"Go back to sleep," he murmured, studying his friend's profile. "I'll take this shift." 

Lupin stiffened. His hands fisted in the parchment. 

"...Remus?" Lupin looked up at him, then back down to the letter. His expression contorted into something unreadable. "What is it?" he hissed, snatching the letter from him. 

The mark of the Order had already been done away with, laying bare to the moonlight Dumbledore's thin, flowing hand: 

_A new development has arisen. Voldemort is no longer an immediate concern for the time being. Come home, Sirius._

Sirius stared at the words for what felt like a long time, uncomprehending. Then his entire body went weak. He heard himself choking on disbelief as though through a wall of water. "...Oh God. Oh, God." 

Beside him, Remus let out a sob of relief. 

****

"Well, look who finally decided to get up." 

"Good morning, Uncle Vernon," said Harry evenly as he sat down at the table, matching the older man's sneer with a frigidness that surprised even himself. His cold tone seemed to knock his uncle off balance; he made no comment as Harry started in on his egg and cold water. He chewed determinedly, trying hard to ignore the tiredness behind his eyelids. _This will keep me in better shape for Quidditch next year_, he thought, sickeningly optimistic and knowing it. 

"Hey," shouted Dudley suddenly, pointing at Harry's plate, "he's got a bigger egg than me!" 

_That's because you've eaten half of yours, you dolt_, thought Harry, sizing Dudley up from the corner of his eye. His cousin, despite the grueling diet and all of the exercise he no doubt got out of his Smeltings stick at school, had lost no weight as far as he could see. He was still the size of a small orca. Even so, his parents exclaimed almost daily over how Dudley was becoming so much thinner. Harry suppressed a smile. He supposed it would be simply cruel to tell them about the stash of food their son had hidden in his room. 

"Dudley, sweetums," began Aunt Petunia in that _voice_, turning from the stove. 

"No, it's all right." Harry wasn't entirely sure that he had kept all of his smirk from his voice, but he was too amused to be worried. He pushed the plate to Dudley indifferently. "He can have it." 

Dudley stared at the extra egg, then looked up at Harry with a suspicious glare. Harry gazed back into his piggy eyes mildly. _That's right, you hog, gobble it up. It's just too bad you won't sprout a tail this time...my God, is that a _fourth_ chin?_

"Now just a moment," roared Uncle Vernon, "Just what have you done to that egg, boy?!" 

Harry was debating whether or not to reply very sweetly that he was not allowed to use _magic_ (with great emphasis on the "M" word) over summer vacation when Dudley decided that running the risk of a ten ton tongue was worth an extra morsel of food. He wolfed it down in five seconds. 

"Dudleykins!" gasped Aunt Petunia, horrified. 

"Discipline, my boy, _discipline!_" Uncle Vernon turned on Harry. "So now you're trying to sabotage his diet, are you? After all we've done for you, your ungrateful little--" 

Harry resisted the urge the roll his eyes. Instead he leaned back into his chair, feeling his face fall into a bored expression, and glanced at the clock. "Uncle Vernon, you'll be late for church." 

The beefy man stopped in mid-rant, his red face going even redder as he twisted his neck (or what there was of it) to check the time. Then he pushed back from the table as though it had caught fire or chanted an incantation. "Dudley," he barked, "go clean up and get yourself decent. You," he pointed a thick finger at Harry, "I will deal with you later." 

Dudley smirked at Harry as his mother came up behind him and looked down her nose with severe distaste at her nephew. Harry turned his back and silently cleared the table, blocking out the frantic bustle around the house. When the door had closed behind the last of his relatives, he went upstairs and watched from his window as the Dursleys tore off in their loud, fancy car. _How religious of you, Uncle Vernon_. 

Suddenly, in his mind's eye, the fading car left the ground and flew through the air, through the night, with laughter ringing in his ears and wind blowing through his hair.

The memory was sharp and painful, yet it seemed to Harry that he recalled it from across a desert of heat waves. Even now, he could hardly equate himself with the skinny, carefree boy that had flowing so recklessly into his second year at Hogwarts. A frown knitted his brows. No, he had never been entirely carefree, not when compared to others his age. Harry sighed, rubbing at his temples, then turned and sank down onto his bed. He glanced up at the clock, which read 9:30. The Dursleys would be back in about two hours. He slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a wrinkled and worn piece of parchment. It was the last letter he had received and replied to from Laura Ranone since vacation had started. Even though he had fairly memorized it, he read it over once more to make sure that he had its instructions correct.

_Mr. Potter,_

_I have decided against arranging for a Portkey near your home. Your Headmaster has explained to me in detail the difficulties your guardians' position regarding the magical world may pose in the face of your participation in the trial. Rest assured that any that arise will be dealt with._

_In place of the Portkey, please follow the enclosed directions to the Neo Café. The walk is not far. I will meet you there on Sunday, June 5th, at 10:15 am. _

_Come alone._

_Sincerely,_  
_ Laura Ranone_  
  
The Neo Café. Harry knew where it was; a walk of less than ten minutes. It struck him odd that Laura Ranone would want to meet in a Muggle locale, rather than a place where one could take advantage of all the conveniences of magic. At the same time, it was comforting that they would be in a public, safe place. Still, the last line in her letter made him apprehensive. It served as a genuine reason to take his invisibility cloak and fly to the café several minutes early. He rose from the bed and went into the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him; a gaunt face with shadows beneath his eyes, just heavy enough to be noticeable. He ran his hand through his unruly black hair and checked to make sure that his clothes were presentable. It was a new impulse, and he almost felt silly for it. _Well,_ he reasoned to himself, _I _am _going to meet a lawyer.  
  
_Harry walked out into the hallway and halfway done the stairs before freezing, hand on the railing. He had plenty of time to spare. He could go back into his room and try to pick the lock on that box again. Or he could write a quick letter to Sirius, or perhaps Dumbledore. A moment later he remembered that if he valued Sirius's life, he wouldn't recklessly contact him. A sudden gut feeling warned him very strongly against writing the Headmaster. It was a sensation that nearly overwhelmed him, leaving him disoriented and disturbed. He took in a breath that was sharper than usual and glanced back up the stairs.   
  
It was just the lack of sleep. _I'm just going crazy_, he thought, continuing down to the foyer. He wasn't sure which was more frustrating, the fact that Albus Dumbledore could not be implicitly trusted, or the fact that if he could only get away with magic over the summer, he could have that box open in two seconds.  
  
"Rysk," he muttered to himself.  
  
But would Hedwig even be able to find her? He had never sent her to America, so far as he knew. Harry shook his head sharply when he realized that he had been staring at the empty air. He purposefully strode to the cupboard under the stairs (which he had left unlocked from last night) and pulled it open, locking his mind into a grim, narrow set.  
  
He was going to meet Laura Ranone. He had questions about Ron and his family. And by God, he was going to get answers.  



	3. Odd Meetings

It was a beautiful morning in London as well, unseasonably cool for June and promising to remain so for the rest of the day. Bent nearly flat along his broom, Harry was grateful for it. He was a bit hot beneath his invisibility cloak, which barely wrapped over himself and the Firebolt to form a cocoon in this position, and so much closer to the sun than the cars on the street and the milling pedestrians below. He shot through the air, unseen by Muggle eyes, and arrived at the Neo Café within two minutes. Now he frowned, hovering above the building that stood on the corner of Howser and Thorgun. He pushed downwards on his broom, descending until he could have jumped safely onto the café's roof, and began scanning the area, searching hard for any sign of a trap. 

"I don't like this," he muttered to himself. Ranone's last order, _Come alone_, weighed more and more heavily upon his mind. _Why isn't she meeting me in a Ministry office, like a normal witch?_

Still, Harry didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He swooped about the block once or twice more. A breeze was picking up, and the flying was becoming quite pleasant. Harry reluctantly dove to the ground, out of sight of the coffeehouse's parking lot. He reached around his broom and undid the safety pins that held the two edges of the invisibility cloak fastened together. He felt a moment of awkwardness as he leapt to the ground and straightened, a feeling of heavy wrongness in his legs that always happened after flying. He paced a few steps, shaking out his legs, before bundling his Firebolt in the cloak and lying it on the ground flat against the wall. 

Harry walked to the door but hesitated with his hand on the handle. Through the glass he could see that the Neo Café, as always, had good business. He relaxed slightly. This was a public place, after all, and therefore probably the safest place to meet. But he wondered how he could find Laura Ranone among the many patrons in the house. _That's all right, she'll probably recognize me,_ he thought dryly, remembering his first day in Diagon Alley with Hagrid. Even so, for the first time he brushed his hair aside and checked his reflection to make sure his scar was visible. 

The rich aroma of coffee greeted Harry as he stepped inside. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked about uncertainly. Many of the people were here alone, so even though half the tables were filled, the café was very quiet. Only a couple low conversations and the sound of customers placing their orders reached Harry's ears. He glanced at the counter, where a short line was forming. The woman at the end, with her brown hair pulled back into a bun, turned her head and scanned the room. Harry saw that she wore a pair of small, very fashionable glasses. Suddenly, he realized that her eyes had stopped on his. She gave a tiny nod, throwing the inevitable glance to his forehead. Harry walked to stand beside her as nonchalantly as he could. 

"Harry?" 

"Yes," he replied quietly, trying not to fidget. 

She smiled, extending her hand. "I'm Laura Ranone. It's nice to finally meet you. I hope this isn't too inconvenient." 

Harry did a faint double-take as he took her hand. Her voice was warm and pleasant, not at all what he had expected (even though he didn't really know what he had expected). It contrasted sharply to the briskness of her grip. "Oh, no. No, it's okay." 

"Can I help you?" asked the boy behind the counter, as though reciting a mantra. 

Laura Ranone gave the board menu a quick examination before telling the young man, "Decaf and the Caesar salad, please." She reached into her small purse. "What about you, Harry, do you want anything?" 

"Oh," said Harry, once again caught off guard. He dug into his pocket, slightly embarrassed. "No, I mean, I can...I have--" 

"Don't worry about it," she said with a friendly laugh that instantly put Harry at ease, in spite of himself. "I arranged to have us meet here, after all." 

"Oh, well..." Harry withdrew his hand. He had brought along a few pounds to buy breakfast, but he didn't have nearly as many pounds as he did Galleons, and he was starving. "If you don't mind." 

"Of course not. Anything you want." 

Harry ordered a ham croissant and orange juice. He watched with faint surprise as the witch paid the cashier and thanked him with practiced smoothness. _She must be Muggle-born_, he thought as they walked away from the counter with their food. "Thanks, Ms. Ranone." 

"Laura," she corrected him lightly, "and you're welcome." 

By the time they sat down at a table in the corner, Harry had already decided that he liked her. His stomach growled painfully. He took a bite of his croissant, which tasted wonderful, and waited for Laura to speak as she took a sip of her coffee. Instead, the lawyer surprised him once again. "Well, I'm sure you've got a lot of questions," she said conversationally. "I do, too. But you first." 

Harry blinked and took a sip of his own drink to buy himself a moment of time. "Um, well...." He gave an embarrassed laugh. "I don't know where to start. Why'd you want to meet me here? I thought you would want to be in your office at the Ministry or something...you know, where you could use magic." 

Laura smiled again, but this time the expression held a hint of dryness. "I thought that perhaps your...relatives..." the emphasis she placed on that word told Harry that Dumbledore had indeed told her _everything_ about the Dursleys, "would be more comfortable with your meeting in a Muggle location." 

"Ah." Harry's mouth twitched. "They don't know that I'm here." 

Laura's mouth twitched in return, and Harry decided that he definitely liked her. He took the opportunity to study her more closely as she mixed her salad and took a bite. She was a young woman, perhaps Sirius's or Rysk's age, with strong but pleasant features and brown eyes. Harry fought a frown, wondering where he had seen those eyes before, then felt a flash of uneasiness as he remembered: Paul Ranone. He was suddenly burning to know how she was related to the Death Eater. 

"I'm going to be honest with you, Harry," she began, leaning forward slightly, "this isn't going to be an easy trial to win." 

"No," he agreed quietly in a voice full of meaning, "We already have several strikes against us." 

Laura Ranone paused and studied him. "Tell me what you know already," she said mildly, folding her hands. 

Harry hesitated. He didn't want to offend her, but her relaxed demeanor and the professionalism he sensed beneath it seemed to indicate that she would not take anything personally. "Well...there's me, for one thing." Laura raised her eyebrows slightly. Harry suddenly heard himself say in a reprimanding voice, "Don't look so surprised; you know Fudge doesn't like me." 

The lawyer's eyebrows shot up further before she flashed an apologetic smile. "And do you know why?" 

"I shattered his little world of complacency?" returned Harry, lifting his glass to his lips. 

"Very good," she laughed, sounding ironically delighted. "You're going to be an excellent witness. What else?" 

Harry looked down at his plate and picked little flakes off of the croissant. "There's you." He swiped his tongue over his lips nervously before looking up to gauge her reaction. He mentally winced as a quick, subtle tightening of her jaw darkened her face. Then it cleared but Harry was wary once again, sensing that this discussion had begun in earnest. 

"There's me," she agreed calmly, nodding. 

"I'm sorry--" started Harry, but Laura Ranone cut him off with a wave. 

"Don't be sorry; facts are facts. So. We, the defense, face the opposition of the Minister of Magic, its ace witness is someone whom Rita Skeeter has slandered--" 

"So you read the _Daily Prophet_, too." 

"--and its attorney is a Squib." 

"_What_?!" Harry caught himself only just in time and lowered his yelp to a whisper, and the result was something between a hiss and a squeak. He nearly slapped his hand over his mouth an instant later, ashamed of his reaction. 

"Yes, but I make sure to note who's writing the article, and didn't you know?" 

"I...I meant that you were related to...to that Death Eater, Paul Ranone..." he stammered, desperately hoping that he hadn't offended her. 

Laura reached for her coffee, using Harry's earlier tactic of getting one's bearings. "I am his sister," she replied evenly, putting down her cup with a soft clink on the glass table top. "His older sister." 

"I see." Harry thought of Percy in Azkaban and squashed the ridiculous urge to say, _I'm sorry_. He picked up his sandwich and took another bite, reducing it to less than half. His chewing sounded loud in the awkward silence. Thankfully, Laura filled it so tactfully that it was as though it had never been. 

"But while we're on the subject of the Death Eater, tell me: you're testifying for my client. Why?" 

"He's my friend," said Harry without thinking. 

"I can't work off of that, Harry; give me something else." 

Harry clenched his teeth, having to hold back sudden anger. "Because he's not guilty of being a Death Eater; he doesn't _have_ a bloody tattoo on his arm; he didn't know what he was doing! And he's not guilty of aiding Vol--You-Know-Who. Not on purpose." He hesitated, not sure if it would be wise to add that if this case were lost, then Fudge would win. McGonagall's terse words echoed through his mind: _"We must win this trial, Potter. Do you understand? Percy Weasley must not be found guilty."_

He was suddenly aware of an edge in Laura Ranone's gaze, an unsettling calculation reminiscent of both Dumbledore and Carmen Rysk. It disappeared a heartbeat later. 

Harry shut his mouth and reached for his orange juice. 

"All right then," she said, apparently satisfied, "We can work with that. You realize that Percy Weasley faces a long list of charges. Breaking and entering, for instance." Her mouth twitched dryly. "I'm afraid the best we can hope for is an acquittal on the charge of being a Death Eater. Possibly on the one of knowingly aiding Vol--You-Know-Who." 

Harry blinked, feeling as though he had been verbally winked at. "I can get him acquitted there," he said fiercely. 

Laura tilted her head, then reached into her purse and pulled out a ballpoint pen and a notebook that was at least twice the size of the little handbag. Harry opened his mouth silently in confusion. The older woman saw it and explained lightly, "You don't have to be a witch to use pre-Charmed objects." 

"Oh." 

"I'm going to be using shorthand, so don't worry about going too fast. Tell me." She leaned forward, pen poised. Harry felt as though he were sitting in the broom closet with Rita Skeeter once again, and yet not. Laura was everything that the ridiculous reporter was not; her face was cleanly made-up and open and honest; the small blue mark she had made on the paper was a sharp contrast to Skeeter's self-writing, lying green ink. 

He began recounting in a low voice how he had been walking down the stairs that night, the night everything had started, when he had begun to discover Rysk's past and Snape's torment and so much more he never wanted to know, when he had heard a sound from behind him (he decided it was best to leave out the pain in his scar) and turned, still standing in the middle of the flight of stairs, and seen--he faltered. 

The ballpoint pen, which had been flying furiously but with complete precision, also halted. The lawyer raised her head. "Go on," she said quietly, watching with her brown eyes, "What did Paul do?" 

Harry stared at her for a moment, feeling new respect. Something in the way she said his name so steadily was heartbreaking; perhaps the glimmer of anguish in her expression or voice. 

"I didn't recognize him at first," he continued, hearing sympathy change and soften his tone subtly, "but he...Ranone...he was standing at the top," he gestured, "and--" 

"Recognize him?" she interrupted sharply, "You met him before?" 

"Once. A couple months before that...he was with another wizard from the Ministry. They wanted to talk to Dumbledore about something." She nodded slowly, relaxing and scribbling those words down. "Anyway, he threw the disarming hex at me." He paused for a moment, wondering if a Squib would know what that was. She seemed unfazed, and so he went on. "I tried to get my wand back. With Accio. You know, the dueling method--" 

"Yes, I know." 

"Okay. Well, it fell down the side of the stairs and then I saw Percy. He...he was shouting something like, 'What are you doing?'. Then he just came flying at Ranone from the side and knocked him down." 

"You saw all this? You heard all this?" 

"Yes." 

"What happened next?" 

Harry sighed, remembering. "I don't know after that. I ran to get my wand but I got stunned before I even made it down the rest of the way." 

"And not by my client," said Laura, sounding excited but still careful, "Someone will testify that he was found unconscious." 

Harry glanced down at her notebook. It was filled with what looked to him like illegible scribbles, with a few recognizable letters standing out. "Can you really read that?" 

The other followed his gaze and chuckled. "Looks like another language, doesn't it? Don't worry, I could read it in my sleep. In any case, this is excellent, this is really very excellent. I think you're right; we have a chance at getting him cleared of the two most serious charges. It should be enough to keep him out of Azkaban." 

"Keep him out?" echoed Harry, feeling surprised but pleased. "There's another jail." 

"Oh, yes. Similar to the Muggle types." Her voice hardened for a moment. "Something that doesn't involve the sadistic torture of a living death." Harry dropped his gaze downwards. Laura gave an embarrassed laugh. "I'm sorry. I've never agreed with the use of Dementors." 

_Oh, if only you knew, _thought Harry darkly, thinking of the Summoning ritual Voldemort was no doubt performing right this instant. He fought a shudder as the image of a thousand black cloaks draped over rotting corpses flooded through London and into his room, a hood falling back to reveal only a gaping, shriveled, screaming mouth with the impossible power to extinguish his soul, his will, his... 

"Harry?" 

He started and looked up into Laura's concerned face. The lawyer reached across the table and laid her hand over his, a familiar gesture that would have made him uncomfortable had it come from anyone but her. Somewhere in the back of his mind Harry wondered at her ability to become an instant friend. "Are you all right? You went pale." 

He shook his head. "I'm fine." 

"All right," she said, the line between her brows slow to disappear as she drew back. She reached up to tuck a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "There are a lot of things to get planned out, and not a lot of time, but you've given me new information. I'm going to go back to plan things out, then we'll need to meet again." She began putting her things away. 

"When is the trial going to be?" said Harry, draining the last of his orange juice and collecting himself. 

"It's set tentatively for the middle of July. I don't have an exact date yet. Either that or they're just not telling me," she added with a telltale hint of ire. "In any case, I'll be in touch." Harry took this as a cue to go and pushed his chair back. Laura Ranone rose with him. 

"Um, thanks for the breakfast." 

"Don't mention it," she said with a wave, giving him her most winning smile yet. Harry smiled back and moved past her to leave. Suddenly, just as he brushed her shoulder, something finally caught up with his mind: Ron and his family. He swung back around. 

"Oh...! Ms. Ra--Laura," he exclaimed, more abruptly than he had intended, "Do you...do you know anything about Ron? He's Percy's younger brother." 

Laura raised her eyebrows. "Ron Weasley? Only that there was an attempt on his life...nothing else." 

"You don't know who tried it? Why?" 

She pursed her lips. "I wish I did. It's frightening, really. If I find anything out, I'll let you know, but..." 

"Thanks," said Harry quickly, berating himself for an idiot. If Dumbledore was not entirely sure of Ron's situation (or at least, that was what he said), than it was doubtful that a lawyer who was being used only as a pawn in a game of greater powers would know a thing. 

But as he walked out into the parking lot of the Neo Café, where the late morning sunlight glinted off of the cars, he was still bothered by how Laura Ranone's eyes had flashed at the mention of Ron's name. 


	4. Nyormansi

Sunday morning found the Headmaster of Hogwarts pacing before the door of his chambers. The sole other occupant of the room watched from an armchair with a worried frown on her face: Albus Dumbledore did not pace. 

"Albus," said McGonagall gently. When the old wizard did not respond, she reverted to her classroom voice. "_Albus_!" Dumbledore stopped and looked at her. "Nothing but the Dark Lord at my door this morning could have sparked the desire in me to make the journey here, let alone get up from my _bed_, and I can assure you that Arabella and the others will be even less enthused." Her voice and expression softened. "Sit down. They will be rather late, and understandably." 

Dumbledore came away from the door and sank into the couch across from McGonagall with a sigh. "You're right," he said after a moment, gazing at the edge of the wooden table that separated them. 

"Of course I'm right." 

"But all of it." Rare agitation crept into his voice. "All of it for nothing,, Minerva. And I had them--" 

"You didn't know; none of us could have known," she admonished him. "In fact, I'm still not sure I believe it myself." 

"Hm, yes," murmured the Headmaster, "it _is_ rather unbelievable." He glanced up suddenly. "Where is Severus?" 

"_Sit_!" shrilled McGonagall as Dumbledore began to rise. The effect on the old man was no different than the one suffered by her first-years. "You know perfectly well that he is in the castle." She pursed her lips disapprovingly, even though she knew that the Potions Master lived in the school throughout the summer for his own safety, or at least that was the main reason. "And _he_ will be even later than Black and the rest. Simply because he is contrary." 

Dumbledore shook back the sleeves of his robes and rested his hands on his knees. "You're right again." He gave his colleague a rueful smile that quickly disappeared. "He should be coming out of the worst of the withdrawal by now. It was more intense than Poppy had expected." 

"Poor man," said McGonagall evenly. 

"I should have checked in on him. It's not like Severus to go...wandering about the castle. Certainly not in that state." 

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, then promptly shut it, so sharply that it looked strange without an accompanying _snap!_ In the silence that followed she took the opportunity to remove her tall, spectacularly crooked hat, keeping her expression carefully neutral. She needn't have bothered, as the Headmaster gave voice to what was on her mind a moment later. 

"He was covered in her robes," he said suddenly, still staring down at the floor. "She must have carried him in and--" 

Three knocks sounded at the door. Dumbledore was already across the room and opening it before the last one had faded from the air. As the Headmaster stepped back a tall, handsome young man with long red hair was revealed to McGonagall's view. "Good morning, William," said Dumbledore brightly, motioning for the Auror to come in. William nodded to both of them as he crossed the threshold, looking thin and haggard. But compared to the two that followed after him, he looked downright robust. "Sirius. Remus." 

Remus Lupin nodded stiffly as he came in behind Sirius Black, the effort that it took to meet Dumbledore's and McGonagall's eyes apparent in his face. Black kept his hand near his friend's elbow, protective whether consciously or not. They took their seats in silence. 

"Where is Arabella?" asked McGonagall. 

"At home," replied Sirius hoarsely, rubbing at his eyes as if trying to banish the deep bags beneath them. His voice was flat but slightly edged, as though daring either to say a word about it. "Mundungus is fetching Ron and the others. Orion--" 

"Never mind," broke in Dumbledore gently. "Let them rest. I'm amazed and grateful that any of you decided to come at all. Did you manage to get any sleep?" 

"We found an inn in Dublin," muttered William. 

McGonagall suddenly waved her wand. Steaming cups of tea and a plate heaped high with all kinds of sandwiches appeared on the table in the center of their circle, eliciting a gasp from Lupin. "Eat," she snapped, "I can see your ribs through your robes. Eat! And not a word, Black," she warned with a glare, very serious, as Sirius began to protest, "Not one word. If you open your mouth again there will be food in it, one way or the other!" 

There was a collective hesitation, and then all three Aurors, even Lupin, fairly attacked the refreshments before them with no thought to manners or restraint. McGonagall leaned back and stared at Dumbledore with a gleam in her eyes, which was returned with raised eyebrows. 

Had the plate not been magicked so that its contents never seemed to shrink, more than two thirds of the sandwiches would have been gone by the time they slowed their eating. "Thank you," said Sirius, wiping the crumbs away from his mouth with the back of his hand. He already sounded considerably better. 

Dumbledore chuckled. "And you were chiding me for being tense, Minerva." 

"Tense? You're never tense, Albus," laughed William, but beneath his good-natured sarcasm was an edge, an insistent question. Unlike Black, who demanded all answers bluntly, the youngest member of the Order of the Phoenix did not need to say something it make it heard. He was more subtle in some ways than even Lupin. 

"You flatter me," returned Dumbledore. "But I regret to inform you that there is still much to be tense about." 

Remus and Black exchanged a glance. "Such as?" prompted the werewolf softly, resting his arms on his knees and clasping his hands, gazing intently at the old wizard. 

"Yes," agreed William. "Voldemort is no longer an immediate threat; _I_ can't think of anything more relaxing." 

The Headmaster took a calm sip of his tea. "Ah, jasmine." He set the cup down. "Please, be patient. There is not much to tell, but there is much to discuss. 

"You see...well, let's have the good news first. Voldemort--do try not to flinch, Minvera--has not yet performed the Initiation, or the Summoning, what have you. Quite simply, has has not because he cannot." 

There was a pause. The room was suddenly charged. "What's the catch?" It was not clear exactly who spoke, as the question was in the faces of all three members of the Order. 

McGonagall's mouth pressed into a hard line. "He cannot, yet." 

Sirius sat back into the couch very slowly. 

"I was mistaken," continued the Headmaster, looking at each of them steadily in turn. "There is a component of the spell that Voldemort does not know. It appears that Morgana Le Fey made this rite more complex than even masters of the occult suspected." 

Dumbledore reached into his robes and came back out with a scroll of parchments in his hand. He pushed the plate of sandwiches aside and spread it flat on the table. Line after line of black ink stared up from the face of the faintly yellowed paper, flowing in a peculiar language of twisting, sinuous characters. 

"That's not Arabic," remarked William, leaning over the table. "Or Hindi." 

"Manchurian, maybe?" suggested Lupin, cocking his head. 

Sirius looked up. "What is this?" His voice was barely above a whisper. 

"I believe you already know, Sirius." 

William stiffened and glanced at Lupin, who had kept his distance from the parchment in spite of his interest. The younger man caught on suddenly and jerked back from the table. 

"Don't be alarmed," McGonagall assured them, "It's only a copy." 

"Don't be alarmed!" cried Black, shaken, "That's the Summoning! Where in bloody hell do you get a copy of the Summoning?" 

"There's no need to swear," said Dumbledore mildly. "This is safe to handle, although perhaps not entirely safe to read if one is not cautious. Fortunately, you cannot." 

"But some know how to write it, apparently," said William. 

Dumbledore's blue eyes flicked to William briefly. Hidden behind her teacup, McGonagall smiled approvingly at the young wizard. "Yes, and to read it, but not speak it properly. No one can. It's an archaic tongue called _Nyormansi_; believed to have originated in either England or Ireland; exactly where is a debated topic, especially since scholars can't find any roots it has in Gaelic, nor Old English, nor even Latin." 

"So it's a dead language," said Lupin. 

"Deader than Latin," replied McGonagall. 

"Yes. And while not dangerous in and of itself..." Dumbledore picked up the scroll and shuffled it to the fourth or fifth sheaf, "it is the language Le Fey originally used to create the Summoning in. Another curiosity, as one would wonder how she found Nyormansi, or became fluent enough to use it as the instrument of her most terrible feat." 

"She was Le Fey," muttered Lupin with a kind of fearful but dry admiration. He glanced at Sirius, who was strangely silent. 

"But to the point: here is where Voldemort's problem lies." The Headmaster spread the parchment flat again. On this page, the twisting writing abruptly stopped at the halfway mark for about ten lines long before resuming. Dumbledore laid one long, crooked finger in the middle of this blank space. "This missing passage is an incantation. A vital incantation. Granted, everything in this ritual is vital, but this is the true key. Voldemort does not have it." 

"How do you know?" said Black into the silence. His voice was a bow strung high with tension, stretched within a centimeter of its breaking point. 

"I did not, Sirius," replied Dumbledore softly, "until reading through it last night. The script here before the missing section declares that the following is an incantation." 

"So you've never read it before." 

"No." 

Lupin's face became neutral, which betrayed all that he was thinking instantly. He glanced at McGonagall for a moment before both of them averted their gazes. 

"Has anyone?" 

"No, Sirius." Dumbledore's voice was matching Black's drop for drop in volume. 

"Then this copy must have been made from the original." 

"Yes, Sirius." 

"Who opened the book?" hissed the the leader of the Order, shooting his feet. His sunken face was animated by an emotion so intense that it was impossible to name. "No one can open that book, it's forbidden to open that book, it's impossible to...without..." He choked. "Without..." 

"Indeed," came a silky voice at the door. All eyes but Sirius's turned to Severus Snape, who stood in his black robes on the threshold, unnoticed until now. "Which begs the question, who could gather such information? Who would even expose themselves to the consequences?" 

The Potion master's eyes were fixed upon Black in bitter, burning hatred, seeking to lock their gazes. But for once Sirius did not return his stare, instead looking at Dumbledore in thinly veiled panic. The Auror had gone pale. 

"An overseas contact," replied McGonagall sharply, as she was the only one in the room who could do so without raising Snape's suspicions (or too much of them, anyway). 

"One who naturally wishes to remain unnamed." Dumbledore picked up on what the Headmistress had given him, using his usual amiable tone. "But please, come in, Severus. You're a bit late." 

"Yes," agreed Snape, stepping into the room and once again looking at Black. "My apologies, Headmaster." 

Sirius paid no heed to his enemy as he sat back down, pushing his long hair out of his face and struggling to master himself. Something in Snape's expression flickered, as though somehow being ignored perturbed him. He studied all present as he glided to a seat beside William, who neither stiffened nor smiled. His gaze flicked away from the younger man dismissively, but landed on Lupin. The former professor had shrunk into himself upon seeing Snape and was no staring at the flood, desperately trying not to be noticed. He sipped repeatedly at his tea, refusing to look up, his body language making it obvious that there was nothing he wanted more than to run from the room. Snape's mouth curled. 

"Good morning, Lupin," he drawled softly, cruel relish weighing down every word, "And how is our hungry lycanthrope today?" 

Remus Lupin gasped as though struck a mortal blow, all blood immediately draining from his face. His teacup fell from his hands and shattered across the table, spilling hot liquid into William's lap. 

Almost everyone in Dumbledore's chambers could have, at that moment, gladly murdered Severus Snape. But Black was too fast for them all. 

"YOU _BASTARD_!" he screamed, lunging through the circle of chairs and couches to tackle the taller wizard to the ground. There was a struggle that sent the plate of sandwiches flying and upset many more teacups before Sirius managed to roll atop of Snape and pin his arms immobile beneath his knees. 

Remus and William sprang to their feet as Black began dealing blow after merciless blow to Snape's face. "Sirius!" shouted Lupin, "Sirius, stop it!" Cries of pain began leaking through the professor's clenched teeth. William leapt forward, but it was unclear as to whether or not he was trying to stop Sirius or help him. 

An explosion of thunder suddenly clapped through the air and shook the chamber: "STOP!" 

And everything froze, even Black's crazed anger. There was a silence born of shock. Then McGonagall was hastening to help William pull the other Auror off of Snape. 

Lupin came up from behind, horrified. "What are you doing?" he demanded, staring at Sirius as William held his arms pinned to his back, holding him easily against his struggles. Unlike before, Sirius Black was now completely focused on Snape, straining towards him with a snarl distorting his features. 

Snape staggered to his feet, ignoring McGonagall's outstretched hand, blood streaming from his nose and a gash across his cheek. A smirk of pleased triumph ghosted at the corners of his lips. 

And Sirius Black stopped fighting abruptly. He was the only witch or wizard who saw, at that moment, the relief beneath that smirk, the pure and undiluted relief. 

"Gentlemen," snapped Dumbledore, "Are you children or wizards? Have you forgotten your agreement?" 

Black continued to stare at Snape, his attention unsecured. Instead, it was William who answered for him, releasing his arms and turning on the Headmaster. "Did you hear what he just _said_?" he all but snarled. 

"My ears are functioning as well as they ever have," replied Dumbledore tightly. 

"Sit down, William," ordered McGonagall as she took the sopping wet copy of the Summoning between two fingers and held it at arm's length, as though handling a venomous snake. A wave of her wand and it was dry; another and the mess across the table and over the floor vanished. 

"Sit down," murmured Lupin, putting his hand on Sirius's shoulder. "I'm not worth it." 

Black turned his head. "What did you just say?" he hissed. 

"Severus. Go clean yourself up." 

The Potions master turned on his heel and began stalking out. 

"And Severus." 

Snape pivoted on the threshold. 

"I want to have a word when you're done." 

Snape gave the Headmaster one sharp nod, his expression inscrutable, and left in a swirl of black robes. 

**** 

Professor McGonagall waited until Dumbledore left to find Snape, shortly after Black had stepped outside with Lupin. To her irritation, the Headmaster left the door slightly ajar. She stepped to one side to make sure that he was truly gone, but did not take the risk of closing it all the way. 

"Control yourself!" she snapped, turning to face William after she was sure that her colleague was out of earshot. 

"He was provoking him." William seethed as he tried to shake out his wet robes in vain, then cursed and took out his wand to clear the tea away. "Did you hear what he _said_?" 

"Quite well, thank you," replied the older one stiffly. "Be kind enough not to repeat it." 

The young man glared at the door. "No, I won't. If I do I'll probably go out after him and kill him myself." 

McGonagall watched her chosen Auror within the Order for a moment. "Brook," she said finally, reaching up to fuss with the bun her grey hair was pulled into, "Remember that I recommended you to the Headmaster for a reason." Her tone softened. "You are the water for the flame. It is _your_ job to keep the peace, and that means enforcing the decisions that are in the best interests of everybody. No matter how it smarts," she added. 

"I'm not sure I've been doing the most phenomenal job in the first place," muttered William, taking a seat again. 

"You have," McGonagall assured him, sitting down across from him. "In any case, if you can't, who can? Certainly not Lupin, no matter how much Albus believes that the role of neutrality is his. In other situations, yes, but he's far too close to Black. And he's certainly not in any condition to worry about the well-being of others right now. You are essential, Brook. You cannot act rashly. Never forget that. 

"And don't worry about Severus." Her eyes flashed grimly. "I will keep you in mind when I have my opportunity to speak with him." 

William glowered at nothing for a while longer, then sighed and ran a hand through his hair, appeased but still quite unhappy. His eyes found and stayed on the script that embodied the Summoning of the Forever Hollow, strange and eerie in the way it seemed to stream across the parchment. "Who can write that well enough to copy it?" He raised his gaze to McGonagall. "They didn't really open one of those tomes, did they?" 

"You know full well there's no other way to access the Summoning," replied the witch impatiently, but she failed to hide the touch of a shudder in her shoulders. 

William made no attempt to hide his own shudder. Incredulity was on his face. "Do they have any idea what's going to _happen_ to them? They must be insane." 

_Correct,_ thought McGonagall, but knew better than to elaborate further than that, or to even elaborate at all. In situations such as these, William Brook was at a disadvantage simply because she knew how cunning he could be. The Headmistress analyzed the other one, making it clear that she was unamused. "You will not be getting _who_ it was out of me, Brook." She conjured up a new cup of tea for herself and the other wizard. 

They fell into silence after that, waiting for the others to return. William only broke the quiet once, with a thoughtful, "_Nyormansi_..." 

In the stillness of the room, it sounded like a snake's hiss. 


	5. They Fall

The Headmaster's voice was covered in an incredibly intimidating layer of calm, as thin as the ice Snape knew he was skating on. "That, Severus, was mindless, needless, cruel, and utterly, utterly uncalled for." 

There were very few things in the world that had the power to terrify Severus Snape. Cornered in the hallway outside one of the staff member's bathrooms, the Potions master was sharply reminded that Dumbledore was near the top of that short list as he had to throw all the willpower he possessed into holding the other's gaze instead of cowering back against the wall. 

"Have you no pity?" The Headmaster's eyes were suddenly blazing. Snape took a step back, and then another, pride forgotten, until his back touched the wood paneling of the wall. To his dismay, Dumbledore matched him pace for pace. "Remus is nearly broken. A word from anyone could crush him, even from you. _Especially_ from you!" 

Snape's mouth worked around a protest. The one he finally settled upon sounded hollow and petty, even before spoken aloud. "He tried to kill--" 

"Yes! Yes, and he knows it!" Dumbledore's fury was palpable, a terrible force that kept Snape pinned to the wall. Just as his voice rose to the verge of a shout, it abruptly dropped to a near-whisper, and his face became so sad that the Potions master felt shame beginning to chip at him. "You saw him in there. Don't shake your head, you looked at him and you said it. You knew what was going through his mind. He was shaking, Severus. Shaking! He couldn't look you in the eye." 

"And he shouldn't!" snarled the former Death Eater suddenly, some of his fear turning into anger. "He should have begged forgiveness on bended knee!" Spittle flew from his lips. "I was right, I was right all along, a werewolf is a monster and no matter what potion is administered and no matter how faithfully it is taken _something will happen_--" 

"_Enough_!" 

This time Snape did cower against the wall. 

"Severus." Dumbledore's eyebrows pushed his forehead into an expression of sorrow that mixed with the faint incredulity in his voice. "How could you say such a thing? How could you forget? You, you who received a second chance when all hope of a chance was gone. Can you turn and denounce another who is more blameless than you?" Snape suddenly flinched and looked away, his body going rigid. Dumbledore hesitated for one moment...and twisted the knife. "He could not control himself, and you seem to forget your own frantic claims that _you_ could not--" 

"Don't. Please." 

Dumbledore cut off. The fire in his eyes died to weary embers that flashed once in remorse. Snape's plea was nothing more than raw pain. It hung between them like the bitter cry of a dying man. 

Snape straightened. He brought one hand up, palm outwards, a phantom push that Dumbledore yielded to by stepping back. The sleeve of Snape's robe slid down to his elbow as he did so. There was the Dark Mark, faint in its dormancy, but its bearer could still see every line of ruined flesh that arched to form the skull; curled to mark the serpent in the gaping, toothless mouth. Snape's eyes slid up the tattoo into Dumbledore's gaze. 

"You have made your point, Headmaster." 

Albus didn't move as Snape walked past him. He stared after the younger man's back, which was a bowstring stretched taut and ready to snap at any moment. When he was certain he was alone, Dumbledore closed his eyes in grief and shame. 

**** 

William stood immediately when Sirius walked back into the Headmaster's chambers. "Is he all right?" he demanded in an undertone, meeting his leader halfway. 

"He's fine," murmured Black with a glance past William at McGonagall. "He just had a bit of a snap; the bastard hit a nerve." 

"I'll bloody say he hit a--" 

Sirius saw William look to the door and turned just as Remus said, "I'm fine." The werewolf stepped into the room, perfectly composed, if still a bit pale. He smiled wanly. "Where's Albus?" 

"He--" 

"He's on his way." Snape finished McGonagall's sentence. Lupin jumped, visibly, before calming himself and moving aside for the other man. Sirius's eyes narrowed dangerously, which elicited a wary stare and warning hand on his shoulder from William. The Potions master made his way to the couch and sat without a shred of his usual arrogance or menace. McGonagall and the others exchanged looks, wondering at how subdued he was. 

Dumbledore returned shortly after. "Well." He clapped his hands once and rubbed them briskly together. "I do hope you'll work out your differences on your own time, and soon." He leveled a glance at Sirius that promised a lengthy discussion in the future even as he continued with annoying cheer, "Let's continue, shall we?" 

**** 

Harry got back into the house only minutes before the Dursleys did. He was sitting in his room, staring ahead at the wall and trying to make sense of the thoroughly strange--and strangely likable--Laura Ranone when he heard Uncle Vernon's car pull into the driveway. He was so deep in thought that he paid it almost no heed; focusing on the noises they made tromping into the house only long enough to make sure that they wouldn't be bothering him. 

"Well," he said to himself, shaking his head, "I'll just have to wait and see. Laura." His expression contorted into one of frustration. "_Damn_ it." 

Harry's fingers traced the top of the box. The wood of the lid was smooth, and so they passed over his mother's name blindly. Harry looked down. He had pulled the box from beneath his bed upon entering his room and it had been in his lap since, a weigh that seemed to aid his thinking. "What do you think, Mum?" he asked the name of _Lily Evans_. "What does a witness do in a wizard's court?" 

Dumbledore had told him that a trial of the magical world was, for all intents and purposes, identical to a Muggle one. But Harry doubted that Percy, or Laura Ranone, or he himself would be so lucky. Even months ago, when he had first heard about it, the entire affair had reeked of politics. 

_"Politics, Harry. You can tell what Fudge is more concerned about by what he's trying to do. If he had really had the Ministry's interests at heart--the _Ministry's_, not the magical world--he'd be hushing this trial up, or settling it outside of court, or burying this entire thing altogether. They're already split into two factions; the best thing to do right now is to reunite them."_

A pang of nostalgia squeezed his chest. Already those quiet words, spoken by clever Hermione late one night in the common room, seemed years and years away. 

_"But he's making noise. Pointing fingers."_

_"Exactly," replied Hermione grimly. He only cares about saving face. His ego. Discrediting Ron's family and their supporters so that his faction will support the upper hand. I don't think he even realizes we're on the same side anymore. That's just what..."_

"What Voldemort wants," he mouthed. A shiver broke out over his body, jolting him back into his room. He frowned down at the box. "Mum, how'd you lock this?" He brought it up to his ear and shook it again. The faint rustling of parchments fueled his curiosity to an even greater height. "You must not have wanted anyone seeing it...but what's it doing in _this_ house?" 

Harry's eyes fell on the edge of his headboard. For a brief moment he considered bashing the box against it to break the lid open, but a deep, sudden wave of horror coursed through his veins at the very thought, an emotion so powerful that he wasn't certain that it was entirely his. In any case, it shook him, and he set it back down onto the bed, staring at it in confusion and a bit of fear. "Maybe not," he said out loud, and was surprised by how shaken he sounded. 

A scuffle from Hedwig's cage and then several fierce hoots preceded a sharp _tap-tap-tap_ at his window. Harry looked up. A smoky grey owl hovered outside, scraping at the glass with its talons and beak. Harry jumped up and eagerly crossed his room. _Probably just as well_, he thought as he pried open the latch, _I was starting to talk to myself too much._

**** 

"I'll be right out," promised Black in Remus's ear as his friend brushed past him to the door. He ground his teeth together and allowed the werewolf to hear the seething quality to his voice, as it was the last outlet he would have for the next few minutes. The next few excruciating minutes. The meeting was ended; he wanted to go home _now_. He _needed_ to go home now, where pen and quill and privacy to break down into hysteria would be. 

He glared after the Headmaster as the door closed behind his bright blue robes. As soon as the old wizard was out of sight his murderous emotions shifted to the other in the room with him. Snape crossed his arms, drawing his black robes about himself. Sirius reigned in his frantic anger with a massive effort of will and told him through tight lips, "You owe him an apology." 

"This has nothing to do with Lupin," sneered Snape. Black bit back a viscous reply. The Potions master's assuredness was returning, and he cloaked himself in it as imperiously as he did his robes. "If any apology is owed, it is to me. From you." Snape's lip curled further. "That is, if Sirius Black can wrap his mind about such a concept." 

Black stared at the other for a moment before turning his back and walking to the other side of the room to one of the round windows. He rested his forearm above his head on the framing stones and leaned forward, screwing his eyes shut against the sun. "I don't have time for you, Snape," he said, careful to keep his anguished, impatient expression out of his voice. He succeeded almost too well, sounding more tired that contemptuous as he had intended. 

"Ah, what a sharp change of façade," drawled Snape. "I seem to recall that you had ample time for me just a short while ago." 

Sirius let out a mocking laugh. "Yes, Snape you got your rise out of me. Are you happy?" He dropped his hand and swung about. "I hope you are, because you won't be getting another one. I didn't spend twelve years in Azkaban to come out and pick up on an old boy's grudge." He shook his head pityingly, but hatred made him sound less indifferent than he wanted. "You're pathetic, Snape. Hanging on to a prank I played eighteen years ago when it didn't even work. Didn't even have any consequences." A short, incredulous exhalation through his nose, with his eyes closed. He did not see the emotion that spasmed across the other's face, something that bordered on hurt. 

"Where are you going?" he demanded when Sirius pushed past him to the door. Black paused with his hand on the latch. 

"Out." 

"We are to wait until the Headmaster returns," he snapped, almost snarling. 

Black had pushed the door open. He twisted his shoulders to toss his enemy a scathing look. "You can tell the _Headmaster_ that I had more important things to do." 

He was two meters down the hall, struggling to control himself, struggling to walk and not run, when Snape's voice reached his ears again, saying something that made him freeze. "They fall, you know." There was a pause through which Sirius could feel Snape's eyes upon his back, trying to gauge his reaction, willing him to turn around. Even if he'd had a mind to Black could do nothing of the sort; his fear put into words--by _him_, no less--cramped his stomach and rooted him to the spot. "If they open that book. They don't even have to read it...even though I would think they would have _had_ to, to find the correct page for the Summoning. And then copying it. Quite damaging. Considering the very will to open it is enough to corrupt." Snape seemed to caress the words. "One has to be quite corrupt already to even attempt such madness. It _is_ madness, Black." 

Sirius forced one foot in front of the other, feeling his control fraying dangerously fast at the edges. Goosebumps rose along his spine as sweat broke out on his temples. 

"Who is it?" Now his voice was soft; curiosity outweighed the gleeful malice. "You know him. Who is it?" 

_Damned to hell if I tell you_, thought Black as he continued away, biting his lip so hard he drew blood. 

"They fall, Black. If they're strong it will be a slow slide, but they fall!" 


	6. Frustrating Fudge

Harry had never seen the owl before. For a moment he thought it might be Hermione's, but when it landed on the windowsill he saw that its feathers were flecked with black, not white. Besides, it acted entirely too shy to be Virgil, flinching when Harry reached out his hand. "Hello, who're you?" The owl gave another little hop, dragging the envelope tied to its leg. "Come on now, I'm not going to hurt you." 

Black Specks eyed him warily before fluttering onto his wrist. Hedwig began beating at the bars of her cage with her wings. "Oh, shut up, Hedwig," said Harry as he went and closed the door to his room. It was just as well that he did, for Dudley's footsteps pounded up the steps and shook the house a second later. Harry heard him shriek from the top of the stairs: "THAT WAS _MY_ SHILLING! I DIDN'T WANT TO GIVE IT TO THE PLATE! IT WAS _MINE_! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!" 

Harry rolled his eyes. "Git," he muttered. He stroked Black Specks's head, who had been startled into the air before settling back down and digging his (or her?) talons into Harry's skin. "Ow. Ease up." He walked to Hedwig's cage and opened it. Hedwig puffed up her feathers and hooted at the intruder on Harry's wrist. "Out," he told her, feeling how Black Specks shifted uneasily. "Go on, fly a bit." 

Hedwig gave him a baleful glare, then swooped out of her cage and through the window, letting out an injured hoot as she flew took to the air outside. Harry let the new owl into the cage, who immediately started on Hedwig's food and water without shame while the letter around its leg was untied. Harry stared at the back of the envelope. 

_Potter_   
_#4 Privet Drive_

_Nobody calls me _Potter, he thought as he slit the letter open. _At least, nobody who knows my address._

His growing suspicion was confirmed when he took out a piece of neatly folded parchment that fell open along three creases. A blue-and-silver crest seal was stamped in the top right corner; a rearing dragon whose form followed the constellation _Draco_, marked by tiny stars. Along the underside of the crest a line of script curved that Harry didn't recognize. After studying the characters briefly he decided that it was neither Latin nor French, but Russian. 

Harry glanced up at Malfoy's owl, for that was who it must belong to. "How the hell does he know where I live?" he demanded. Black Specks didn't remove his beak from the dish of food. When a year ago he would have furrowed his brows, Harry only sighed as one might when facing the inevitable and began reading. 

_Potter,_

_I wish to acknowledge your gift and express thanks for it. It is a most unique item._

_Draco Malfoy_

The ink on the parchment was black and rich, written in a hand as stiff as the message it spelled out. Harry was puzzled for a moment, remembering that anything he saw of Malfoy's handwriting had been an untidy scrawl. Then he smiled, a grin that stretched from ear to ear. Draco was being so very obvious. Then again, Harry couldn't blame him; he doubted he could have done any better if he had been brave enough to send the first letter. 

Even one week into summer vacation, Malfoy had never been far from the front of Harry's mind. What was most disconcerting was the fact that whenever he considered writing one of his friends, Malfoy came first, Ron and Hermione second. With the finding of his mother's box and Percy's trial looming ahead and now Laura Ranone to worry about, the thought of his rival hadn't carried as much weight as it could have, which was both a blessing and a curse. 

Now Harry sat down at the small, beaten table in the corner (the chair was a plastic child's one, salvaged from Dudley's mountain of unwanted toys), the locked box forgotten for the moment. For a moment he felt drained, like a man pushed to the point of exhaustion, unable to walk, and so had his legs moved for him. So many enormous things weighed upon his mind that it was impossible to concentrate on more than one at a time. The result was an emotional and mental rollercoaster that occasionally caused Harry to black out, as it were, until something else catastrophic jerked him back to reality. 

And so his mother's box and Percy's trial and Laura Ranone all but vanished as he studied the parchment from Malfoy. He blew air through his lips and went to pry up the loose floorboard, where he still kept everything from Hogwarts (and anything edible) from his relatives for safety's sake. Near the top of his books and supplies was a stack of parchments and envelopes from Flourish and Botts that Harry kept for the purpose of writing letters over the summer. He sat back down and put a ballpoint pen to the fresh parchment and made one mark. He stared at the blue ink for a long time, worrying at his lower lip, indecisive. What to say? 

He resisted the urge to scribble angry lines all over the page. His own pride was thwarting his intentions. Harry leaned forward into his hand and closed his eyes. 

Draco Malfoy was his...his what? His dearest friend; brother; savior; benefactor; enemy. Perhaps none of them. Harry knew that what Malfoy was could not be defined this early in the game. He only knew that the other boy was his partner in a bond that paid no regard to reality or true feelings. It was a bond that was pliable, something that could be twisted into unimaginable shape, but not breakable. His mind touched briefly on his godfather and Rysk, and then to himself and Peter Pettigrew. 

_"Forgive me."_

A dead man had begged; a dead man had spoken to him; a dead man had asked something Harry was not sure he could give even though he could hardly refuse to. 

He shuddered. He and Malfoy stood on dangerous ground. Harry had been saved from emotional damage--for that was what Sirius must be suffering, and horribly--because he had had no contact with Wormtail for two years. He would not have that option with Draco. So... 

_So what?_

Harry rested his forehead against his hand. At length, fumbling through vague, hazy thoughts, he came to a conclusion: in a bond formed by the debt of one's life to another, the raw material of a close, special relationship came into being, whether the parties were willing or no. In short, it was like the reverse of a natural friendship. Instead of beginning from an introduction to small talk to a deeper liking, the bond created an instant, intimate trust, and if neither of the bondmates were already friends, they would have no choice but to build from the sky down. 

Or to pervert it. 

_Hello Draco,_

_How are you? Your owl gave me a bit of a surprise because I've never seen it before. You don't have to thank me for the dragon. Have you tried it on as a tattoo yet? I almost got it for myself, you know, but I didn't because of the colors. Rather stupid of me, really. How did you get my address, by the way?_

_Anyway, I hope you're having a good summer._

_Write back,_   
_Harry Potter_

_P.S. What's that language under the dragon thing? Russian?_

He sat back. The ballpoint pen looked odd against the parchment. Then he folded it up and slid it into an envelope. Unconsciously, he addressed it to 'Malfoy' on the back, then hastily added in the other boy's first name. 

"Well," he said as he fixed the letter to Black Specks's leg, "I've done my part." 

****

"Laura Ranone?" 

Ms. Ranone looked across the waiting room, a richly furnished space with plush chairs and thick carpet. Only the cool green scheme of the room saved it from being uncomfortably stuffy. A wizard in Ministry robes stood in the doorway to Fudge's office. His sandy hair brushed his shoulders, making him look younger than middle age. When Laura glanced at him and stood he pulled the door almost to behind himself and met her halfway. 

"He'll see you now," he told her, then lowered his voice. "Don't worry, I've taken care of everything. Just in case." 

She nodded. "Thank you, Frank." 

He gave a quiet little laugh, a sound that was always colored by a touch of hysteria. It had never ceased to alarm her. She supposed that it shouldn't surprise her, but it was still a relief that the insanity no longer gleamed in his eyes or strained his voice, which was always soft. "You don't have to thank me." He eyed her business suit critically. "Although I can't say that's going to help." 

Laura shrugged. "I just met Harry Potter. I could hardly wear robes." 

Frank Longbottom raised his eyebrows. "You'll have to tell me about Potter later, but--could hardly, or did you just not want to?" 

Laura gave him a sour look and walked past him into Fudge's office. 

"Ah, Ms. Ranone." The little man made no move to stand as he greeted her. "Come in, please." 

Laura bought herself a few seconds of time to mask her dislike for the Minister by turning her back to close the door. Through the narrowing crack she met Longbottom's gaze before the waiting room vanished completely. "Good morning," she said with a tasteful smile, fighting to keep it from turning into a smirk as Fudge's watery green eyes lingered on her Muggle clothing. She couldn't resist prodding gently at her eyelid as she sat down before his desk and saying, "Sorry. My contact." 

"Of course," he replied with a twitch. "What can I do for you?" 

"Well," she began, settling her expression into one of neutral pleasantness, "as you know, I've been assigned to Percy Weasley's defense. As his attorney, I need an effective line of communication with my client." 

Fudge gave a boisterous laugh. This time Ranone had to keep herself from twitching at the man's pompousness. "Yes, yes, but naturally." He turned his palms upwards before clasping them before himself again. "We have been delivering your messages to Mr. Weasley faithfully." 

"Oh, I've no doubt." 

"Come, what do you need to tell him? I'll personally see that the letter is gotten to him." 

"That's most kind of you," she said earnestly, leaning subtly forward and looking the Minister in the face, "but I'm afraid simply writing him isn't enough." 

Fudge's jovial expression fell ever so slightly. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean that I'm requesting that he be released from Azkaban on leave to take counsel." 

There was a pause, a short hesitation, but it was enough to let Laura's eyes stray and be caught by the green bowler hanging from a coat tree in the corner. She wondered briefly why he wore that Damned Hat, as it had been dubbed by those in her inner circle, before he managed to secure her attention again. "I'm afraid," and now the eagerness to help was quickly draining from his voice, "that that won't be possible." 

Ranone raised her eyebrows. "Oh, but I assure you, it is. A commonly exercised legal right of the accused--" 

"I mean..." Fudge sputtered for a moment, much to Laura's amusement. "I mean that it would not be _wise_. Mr. Weasley is under maximum security. He's a very dangerous man." 

Only years of experience in the courtroom kept the terrible anger out of her face and voice. "He is only a boy, Minister," was all she said to hint at her ire. "I do realize he is under maximum security, which is why I am requesting _your_ permission to let him out. In short, your signature on a parchment." A moment later she winced inwardly, wondering if that had been too condescending. 

"I do not see anything that cannot be achieved through letters, Ms. Ranone." 

She bit back a scathing opinion on the Minister's ability to _see_. "There is a certain level of communication that can only be achieved face-to-face," she retorted, right on the heel of his words. "And as for Mr. Weasley being dangerous, I recall that even Sirius Black was allowed counsel leave before his...trial." 

_That_ was truly satisfactory. Fudge, in Laura Ranone's eyes, was a blindman and a fool, but even he had enough intelligence to understand the emphasis placed on the word 'trial'. It was only coarse rock salt on the wound opened by the mention of Black's name. Any chance she might have had at eliciting his cooperating was now gone. 

His mouth worked. "I'm sorry," he finally said, sounding irked but smug. "I cannot grant your request." 

Laura sighed. "Well. I had hoped that this avenue wouldn't be closed to me, but I'm afraid I'll just have to take the less pleasant one." She reached into her purse and pulled out a thin sheet of parchment. "An order from the court for my client's release on counsel," she explained, though by the look on his face as he reached across the desk she guessed that she needn't have bothered. "This is your copy." 

Fudge let it fall open and looked over it closely. His eye was beginning to twitch. Ranone kept her expression schooled, even though she wanted to laugh at the Minister's thinly veiled irritation. "Very well then," he said, glancing up, "As you will. I will be validating this. Good day, Ms. Ranone," without waiting for her to stand. 

"Good day," she answered with deliberate cheerfulness, rising and leaving the office.   


****

  
Professor McGonagall was held at the edge of the door to Dumbledore's chambers by the voices coming from within. She pulled back into the shadows, an intent expression on her shrewd face. 

"Where is Sirius?" 

"Black left." 

There was a long silence that told Minerva more than any words spoken aloud could have. 

"Severus, I owe you an apology--" 

"No, Headmaster. You do not." 

The swish of robes and a single set of footsteps warned McGonagall of Snape's approach. She remained where she was until Snape turned the corner and nearly ran into her. He started and pulled back. She stared back at him without emotion, but that didn't prevent the former Death Eater from reading pity somewhere in her eyes. With a sneer, Snape brushed past her. 

McGonagall closed her eyes for a moment, then stepped into the doorway. The sunlight in the room had brightened; they day was approaching noon. Dumbledore made a stark contrast to the warm glow of his chambers, silhouetted in the window with his hands clasped behind his back. The Headmistress sighed and walked across the carpet to him. 

"Albus?" she asked, drawing level with his profile. The old wizard turned his face to her. McGonagall felt her brow crease. "What did you say to him?" 

The Headmaster looked back out the window. "Something I would take back." 

Minerva followed his gaze to the outside world. The grass was very green, and would remain so throughout even the hottest, driest day in summer, unlike Muggle lawns. From the corner of her right eye she could catch just a faint glitter to mark where the edge of the great lake was. She pursed her lips and placed a hand on Dumbledore's shoulder, wondering bitterly if his protégée had ever done such a thing. Little did she know that Rysk's fingers had lingered centimeters from the same gesture several months before. 

With a gentle squeeze, she turned and left him. 

When Severus Snape walked into the teacher's lounge, he dropped down heavily into a chair, unguarded in his solitude. He could not bear to go back to his own chambers. Yes, he had chosen them because they were dark and cold and generally gloomy. They encouraged his dark thoughts; magnified them; echoed them; allowed no heartening ray to shine through. It was all part of a self-inflicted punishment that was not entirely conscious. But sometimes even he could not bear the voices of the ghosts that whispered from the stone walls. At least here, in the lounge, there was air and sunlight. 

His solitude was short-lived. Before long he spied a cat with spectacle-shaped markings around its eyes, sitting in the far corner. Before he could say a word it leaped through the air and in mid-arc transfigured into Professor McGonagall, walking towards him. He stiffened, pushing away from the table as the other teacher sat down across from him. 

"I do not wish to hear your reprimands as well, Minerva," he said acidly, more reactionary than usual. 

"There's no need to jump to conclusions," she told him, assuming her prim air, which barely covered just how badly she wanted to start in on him. "I trust you to be enough of an adult to reprimand yourself. Although," she sniffed, "perhaps that is going against my better judgment." His stare turned poisonous. She was not cowed, instead conjuring up a customary cup of tea for herself and then, after a moment, one for him. He brought it to his lips with a mumbled thanks. They sat in each other's company for some time before McGonagall ventured, "What do you make of it, Severus?" 

"I don't know what you mean." 

"You know full well what I mean, sir," she said sharply. Snape took a particularly slow sip of his tea before answering. 

"It's historical, certainly," he said finally. His tone became even more hypnotic as he sank into thought. "I believe that whoever would sacrifice themselves to such corruption is also certainly mad." He flicked a brief glance up through his eyelashes, trying to catch any hint her expression might hold. There was nothing. He pressed a bit harder. "A fundamental change in one's very character; perversion of your morals...a fall into darkness. Sometimes, even insanity. If a distinction between the two exists, that is." 

Snape was rewarded with the hard line that McGonagall's lips pressed into. She tried to mask it with her teacup. "Most unpleasant," she agreed. 

"You understate," he remarked silkily. 

"What other way is there to say it?" McGonagall gazed at the edge of the table and drummed her fingers. "Oh! Severus," as though she had just thought of something, "You took the owl post this morning, didn't you?" 

Snape nodded. 

"Was there word from Jenny?" 

The Potions master raised an eyebrow. "Who is Jenny?" 

McGonagall looked incredulous. "Jenny Harrison. Our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. She left." 

Snape's forehead furrowed. His eyes flickered back and forth in the distracted manner of one searching for a memory. "Harrison..." Minerva's eyes narrowed as a finger, almost of its own accord, came to rest on his temple. "I don't seem to...no, wait. Was she young?" 

The Headmistress was studying him intently under the mask of confused surprise. "Fairly. Surely you remember her?" He was silent. "Severus?" 

He looked up and through her, visibly troubled but dazed at the same time. "Odd. I don't. At least...not her face." 

McGonagall shrugged, reaching for her cup. "Ah. Well. She wasn't a very interesting person." Her voice, despite her best efforts, stretched beneath a mixture of panic and relief. 


	7. Strange Exchanges

When they Apparated into Lupin's home, Black was whiter and shakier than even Remus had been, and he certainly was not recovering as quickly. Lupin put a hand on the other's shoulder. Fatigue made him look as though he might have been using Black to support himself. "What's wrong?" 

"I-I'm fine." Sirius looked down at the floor and ran an unsteady hand through his hair. He forced a smile. "I just need a shower. And then sleep." 

Remus slowly let his hand drop. "Yes," he agreed, adamantly keeping his gaze on his friend's, "Take a shower, Padfoot." 

Lupin did not collapse onto the sofa after Sirius disappeared into the bathroom, despite the fact that every nerve in his body screamed for sleep. Instead he paced the length of his living room for far longer than his legs should have been able to support him. It took even longer than that for the sound of running water to come from behind the closed door. The former professor glanced down at his robes, which were dirty and coarse and uncomfortable; struck by a thought, he walked into the guest room that Sirius used. He emerged with a pile of clean robes, tested the doorknob to the bathroom and, finding it unlocked, pushed it open. 

He was hit full in the face by a burst of hot air and steam. The curtain of the bath was drawn. Remus deposited the robes on the counter before the fogged mirror. He glanced at the shower; Sirius did not seem to have heard him. Lupin opened his mouth to let him know about the clean clothes, but the words died on his lips when he saw the wrinkled parchment lying on top of Black's dirty robes. He stole another furtive glance at the curtain before picking it up and seeing the handwriting that was vaguely familiar. It was an unsigned letter, but the very brevity of the message and the appearance of the mark of the Order in response to a few murmured words confirmed his suspicions. With a troubled expression, he folded it along the deep creases and left the thick air. 

Lupin was asleep on the couch when Sirius staggered from the bathroom. His fresh red robes did nothing to conceal how thin he had become. He studied his friend for a moment before crossing the living room to Remus's rich oak desk, one of the few luxuries that his friend allowed himself. Black fell into the chair. His legs were still shaking, and the color in his face was but a lingering effect of the shower. Indeed, he was already becoming pale again. The Auror was, quite simply, in a state of exhaustion. Coupled with this was a festering hysteria that had been brutally suppressed for the past hour and a half. It was a small wonder that he could barely pull a parchment and quill from one of the drawers without spilling everything else inside. 

Behind him, Remus jerked violently and started awake, instinctively biting on his tongue to muffle a cry. The cold sweat had not stopped forming on his temples and the last tatters of a nightmare were still fluttering across his mind when he sat up and stared at Sirius's back. He stood without making a noise and padded over the carpet to stand behind him. Black's hand trembled as he tried to write. 

"No, Sirius." Sirius twisted sharply about when Lupin's hand came down to obscure the parchment. Their eyes locked. "It's not safe." 

Black's mouth worked. "Y...yes it is." 

"How do you know? How do you even know you can reach her?" prodded Lupin gently. 

His condition impaired his judgment and loosened his tongue. "I...she sent me--" He cut off, too late. 

"This?" Remus reached into his robes and produced Rysk's letter. Black's eyes widened with a sharp intake of breath, then he surged out of the chair and snatched at it. Lupin stumbled back. " 'Received your letter. Potter is fine'," he recited. "You wrote her?" 

"Give me that." 

"When did you write her? Never mind; that doesn't matter; you can't now." 

"I have to." Black's voice was shaking, a sharp contrast to Lupin's calm monotone. "Remus, please, I have to make sure that it wasn't her." 

"It was her, Sirius," he said tiredly, letting the hand holding the parchment aloft drop to his side. "It was her, and you know it." 

"Then I have to make sure she's all right!" 

"You can't; you don't know what's happened to her by now. She could have betrayed us to Voldemort--" 

Before Lupin could blink Sirius had lunged forward, deep into his personal space. "No," he hissed, tearing the letter from Lupin's hand. "That's why I have to help her; I have to keep her!" 

"Padfoot, look at yourself. Be reasonable. She was already lost when she was at Hogwarts. She'll fall, and she'll fall willingly, if it's for her own survival." 

"SHUT UP!" 

Black made a sudden, threatening move forward as he snarled, and a combination of nerves, exhaustion, and anger made Remus jump aside, sweeping his leg into the back of his friend's legs. Sirius fell to his knees and stayed there. There was a long silence before Lupin closed his eyes in regret and kneeled down before the other man. "Sirius. You can't help her." 

Black looked up from the floor into the werewolf's eyes. "You can't stop me." 

No. Remus couldn't and he knew it. He bit his lip and cocked his head, a sensation that was both a suspicion and a realization creeping over his heart. "Do you love her?" 

There was no hesitation in his reply. "I hate her." 

"Go to sleep, Sirius. You need to sleep." 

****

"What did he say?" 

Laura resisted the urge to look sidelong at Longbottom. The two of them were walking down Diagon Alley, allowing witches and wizards to weave between them as though unaware of each other. Ranone had left her office five minutes before Minister Fudge's secretary would take his lunch break. They had stepped into the midday throng and strolled until finding one another, careful not to make eye contact. Now they gazed straight ahead as they walked abreast, moving their lips as little as possible as they spoke. 

"All I can say is that I hope your wife forged everything _perfectly_." 

"She did. We wouldn't just give you something like a court order without--" 

They were forced apart by a particularly thick stream of people. Laura lengthened her stride, making sure she was ahead of Longbottom, before stopping to look in the window of Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The dress robe displayed there was fetching enough to make her interest genuine and pluck a string of regret (not the first or last by any means) that she didn't have enough such occasions to bother buying it. When she saw Frank's reflection pass by she straightened and walked after him. Her pace evened out as she reached and maintained a position just behind and to the right of his shoulder. 

"I know," she muttered just audibly, picking up their conversation as though it had never been interrupted. "But you know he'll be checking it sixteen ways from the center." 

From the corner of her eye, Laura saw the blonde head nod. "I have to turn up here," he said, very quietly. "I'll send Rosie to you tonight." 

"Okay," she replied, checking her watch, still not glancing at him. A dry expression touched her lips. "Bye, Winston." 

"What?" 

The small restaurant where he would be meeting his wife Amanda was approaching. "Have you read _1984_?" 

To Laura's mild surprise, Longbottom made a show of reaching into his pocket and dropping a few Knuts and Sickles, just outside of _The Warlock_. The seamlessness of his performance left no doubt that he had once been an exceptional spy and Auror. "No," he murmured as he dropped to one knee and picked up the coins, the faintest hint of confusion in his voice. 

Laura thought of his torture by the Dark Lord, seven sickening days long, and his trapped years of insanity at St. Mungo's. 

"You should," she answered, passing him as though he didn't exist. 

****

Harry tapped the butt of his pen against his lips, resisting the urge to suck on it as he would a Sugar Quill (dangerously habit-forming things). His Potions homework was laid out before his crossed legs on the bed. The question was a relatively simple one: _Write a recipe for a potion that will dissolve stone. List ingredients in order and with instructions._

Easy; yes, very easy. But Harry's experiences with Snape had developed the paranoia that was telling him now that this had to be the hardest problem on the parchment. The nib of his pen had only made a hesitant mark when a knock came at his door. 

His profound annoyance was effaced by surprise. Nobody ever _knocked_. "Uh, come in." 

The door swung inwards to reveal his Aunt Petunia on the threshold. "You missed lunch," she informed him stiffly. Harry raised his eyebrows without meaning to. He wondered a moment later if he had picked that up from Snape or Rysk. He gazed at her for a moment, nonplused. He was certainly never welcomed at the table--the Dursleys only called him down (every now and then) so that they could say they didn't starve him. Which didn't matter; with the stash of food he would soon be receiving steadily from Hermione, he was hardly going to go hungry. 

"All right...sorry?" 

Petunia's lips pinched together, adding even further to the overall pinchedness of her face. "There's some salad left in the refrigerator if you're hungry." 

"Okay," he replied, drawing out the first syllable in confusion. "Thanks." 

His aunt turned her stick-thin back to him and began to go. Harry blinked after her, shifting from his position. Hard wood dug into his back through his pillow as he leaned back against it. Harry jerked upright, and called after her, impulsively, "Um...!" She looked back. Harry hesitated, then threw caution to the wind. "Did...did my mum live here? In this house? Ever?" 

This time it was Petunia who was caught off-guard. A pained, veiled expression crossed her face, an expression that Harry had not expected to see, before the color fled from the thin line of her mouth, driven away by indignant anger. "What makes you think I would allow such freakishness in my own house?" she snapped. 

Harry stiffened. It took every ounce of will in his body, and then some, not to begin shouting at his aunt. He slowly let out his breath and unclenched his fists. "It was only a question." 

"You ask too many." She looked down her long nose at him. Harry, seized by frustration, bounded off of his bed and across the room, stopping an arm's length away. 

"If you won't tell me, I can find out the _other _way," he threatened--no, bluffed. "_They_ answer all of my questions." 

Petunia was already shocked by his aggressiveness, but his play on the Dursley xenophobia worked like magic. Her mouth worked before snapping shut like a trap; it seemed to stay that way even as she spoke. "She did. For a short time before she..." Her face twisted. "Before _you_." 

_Thank you. You always knew how to make me feel like gum on your shoe_, sneered Harry inwardly as she walked away. 

He closed the door and leaned against it, thinking. There was more to Aunt Petunia's answer; there had to be something she didn't want him to know, just as they hadn't wanted him to know about the wizarding world, otherwise she would not have told him so quickly to prevent him from finding out the _other_ way. She obviously believed that Harry could access the secrets of his own life by waving a wand or peering into a crystal ball or something equally silly and obscure. He sighed. If only. 

"Heh." Salad in the refrigerator. The oddness of that exchange rivaled his meeting with Laura Ranone this morning. He put a hand to his forehead, fingers lingering on his scar. He wouldn't think about it now, else his head just might explode.   


Another hour of Potions homework passed. Harry grew more and more bored with every minute until he could not have finished Snape's assignment if his life depended on it. He threw his pen at the wall across the room and flopped backwards with a sigh. 

"Ow!" He bounced back up and rubbed the base of his skull. _Maybe that's not the best place for it_, he thought, glaring at his pillow. A familiar flutter in his open window told him that Hedwig was returning. "Hey, girl," he coaxed as she flew back in. 

She ignored his outstretched arm and flew to the top of her cage instead, giving Harry a look with her yellow eyes that clearly said, _I'm still not talking to you._

"Well," he groused, half-serious, as he got off the bed to retrieve the pen, "You could at least have some sympathy." 

"_Hoo_." 

_My owl has hurt my feelings_, he thought with a sour twist of his mouth, bending on one knee and prying the loose floorboard up to throw Snape's work in with the rest of the Unspeakables. As the materials shifted, a bit of white flashed through the layers of yellowed parchment. Harry reached in and pulled Rysk's roll of papers out. He flipped through it as he straightened, absently pushing the plank back into place with his foot. 

It was essentially a collection of photocopies, fascinating in that it seemed to compiled of ones from survival guides and self-defense books. There were several methods for starting a fire in the wilderness, and only one of them involved a match. (Actually, there were instructions for splitting a match into two). A list of universal distress signals, both Muggle and magical; ways of finding or producing water (including one very advanced spell that would conjure up a stream); plants that were safe to eat; how to kill an animal; how to _cook_ an animal (and which ones could be eaten raw); and all manner of knot-tying, shelter-building trivia with pictures for everything. The next section dealt with more familiar things: how to break a window. How to force a door (if picking the lock would not work, that is). How to load and shoot a gun. Where to find _drug dealers_. 

What made this second part most disconcerting was that more than half of its contents were written in Rysk's hand. Unbidden, the frightened face of a blonde girl flashed pale towards him from the shadows of a strange alley as a hand reached for a knife at his feet. The image faded, leaving only a heavy, dizzy feeling in his head that confused Harry for a moment as to whether or not he was still trapped in Dumbledore's pensieve. 

Two brief pages devoted to magic: odd but surprisingly useful potions, their ingredients, where to find them and how to gather them; a spell for an invisible barrier; how to turn any creature large enough into a loyal mount. Harry was still amused to no end by a quick note written in next to this last one: _Don't even _try _this on hippogriffs._

But it was the final sheaf of paper that truly disturbed Harry. The illustrations of nondescript men and women with arrows pointing to the jugular or temple or pressure points, depending on the passage accompanying them, became a shiver down his spine that he didn't quite understand. The text included how to strangle someone, how to break an arm or rib, and what part of the throat could be impaled by two or three fingers (although using a sharp edge was preferred). Harry had experimentally prodded himself in the solar plexus after reading everything for the first time. He was sick for several moments afterwards imagining what a punch or, worse yet, a stab would feel like. 

Yes, there was something definitely nettling about such violence written out so coldly, or more specifically, written out so coldly for _him_. Holding the stapled papers in his hand and feeling their weight, Harry could not shake the feeling that Rysk was watching him even now. It was as though she had given him this information, foreseeing that he would be needing it even when he himself hadn't the faintest clue what the future held for him. 

A flash of black ink as he let the hand holding the packet fall to his side. He quickly brought it up again and stared at the very back. There, in the bottom corner, was a message in the handwriting that was slowly becoming familiar, neither messy nor neat. 

_Run every day, Potter. You need to get used to running._

****

_Harry_, wrote Ron. 

The redhead leaned forward on his elbows, sticking the feather of his quill in his mouth before remembering that it wasn't spun of sugar. _Bloody things are addictive,_ he thought absently, looking out the window of his room. 

He was sitting at his desk, back at the Burrow, but as of yet his father was not. It was eight o'clock, and the summer evening was still lit by the sun. Ron was worried; his dad usually returned from the Ministry at six or six-thirty, seven on late nights. He sighed. It was unbelievably good to be home, even if the tearful reunion (tearful mostly on his mother's part) had been a bit uncomfortable. Seeing Ginny scream, "MUM!" and run into their mother's arms had been a strange relief in more ways than one. But the fact that Arthur Weasley's hand on the family clock still pointed at 'Work' was depressing. What was Dad doing? Ron wanted answers. While Mum readily puzzled over who would be after Ron's life, she refused to discuss Percy. 

He sighed and set his quill to parchment again. 

_I'm home. And I'm okay. Everyone's okay. You're not going to believe who took care of us while_

He stopped. Perhaps it wouldn't come as a surprise at all to his best friend; Mundungus _had_ said that he knew Harry. Harry always seemed in the know. Feeling his faint, ever-present resentment more sharply for a moment, Ron continued, 

_...while we were in hiding: Mundungus Fletcher. You know him, right? Nice chap. But he was a crying wreck when he came to bring us home. I thought he'd gone buggy. He said something about we couldn't understand what almost happened. (I'm really not supposed to tell anyone about him, but I guess it's safe to tell you). Anyway, I still don't know who's trying to kill me, or if they're still trying to, and it's driving me bloody mad. I don't know why I was ever jealous of you; having someone after your head isn't really much fun._

_I've missed a lot. What do you know about Percy? Mum won't say a word and I have a feeling Dad's not coming home until I'm in bed. If I can even sleep tonight. You're testifying, right? Has the Ministry said anything to you?_

"Ah!" 

Ron jerked around and stared at the thin wall that separated Ginny's room from his. He went out into the hall and knocked on her door. "Gin?" No answer. "Hey, stupid, you all right?" 

"Fine," came the reply a moment later. Ron frowned. Even muffled by the door, something about her voice sounded wrong. He twisted the handle and pushed. 

His sister standing by her bed, bent forward as though in pain with her hand clutching the area directly beneath and between her breasts. (Her breasts? When did Ginny get breasts?) "Gin?" 

"I said I'm _fine_!" she snapped, straightening. "Would you get out?" 

Ron's eyes narrowed. Her reaction was typical, but a dissonant chord rang somewhere within it. "Bloody Merlin" he muttered as he turned and closed the door, "Don't have to get so snappy."  



	8. Worries and Wands

Laura Ranone glanced at her watch when the doorbell rang. It read nine-thirty. She frowned, then shrugged. It wasn't as dark as she would have liked outside, but then again, Rosie couldn't come out too late. Things would be easier in the autumn. The Squib rose from her chair in the kitchen and passed through her apartment, which was furnished throughout with simple lines and pastel colors, flicked on the foyer light and peered through the peephole. A girl in a denim skirt and blouse stood outside in the hallway. 

"Come in," said Laura, unlatching and opening the door. Rosie Hether smiled as she stepped inside, bringing with her the steady and comfortable feeling that filled any room she was in. "Very nice, by the way," remarked the lawyer, gesturing to Rosie's clothes. "Very Muggle. Like some orange juice?"  


"Sure, thanks."  


Laura went into the kitchen and pulled a half-empty bottle from the refrigerator, stocked so neatly with low-fat yogurt and whole-grain bread that it seemed almost bare. She reached up into the cup cabinet again at the last minute, realizing that she was thirsty herself, and her guest in the living room, caught in the door's glass paneling, picking up something by the arm of the sofa. She hastily put it back down and glance in Laura's direction. Ranone finished pouring.   


She reentered the living room and handed Rosie the glass. The girl put it to her lips instantly, mumbling a thanks against the rim. The cup was half drained in the time it took Laura to sit down. The woman stared. "Sorry," the other smiled sheepishly with a bit of a gasp to her voice. "Thirsty."   


"I could tell." Laura gestured for her to sit down, but Rosie remained standing. She gently set her juice onto the small table that sat in between the two couches, like a corner of the square, and asked, "Is that him?"  


Ranone glanced at the photograph sitting beside Rosie's drink. "Yeah," she replied, trying her damnedest to sound indifferent. She failed. Rosie saw her frown and took a seat.   


"Did you have any idea?"  


Laura was sure that Rosie Hether was the only person in the world who could ask that question and ward off all and any awkwardness without effort. There was no accusation in her warm voice; no pity; only empathy.  


"An inkling," she sighed, "But that was it. I mean, I hardly ever saw him." Her hand lingered over Paul Ranone's face before pushing it down against the table.  


"Isn't he younger than you?"  


Laura nodded.  


"I'm sorry."  


"Don't worry," said Ranone, waving off her apology, but not so successful in erasing the tense ball of her own emotions that had begun to swirl again. She took a deep sip of her orange juice to steady herself, then put it down. "All right, now, what's going on?"  


Rosie leaned forward slightly, pulling at a tight curl of her hair. A subtle change had come over her features, one that struck Laura with just how young a mature woman could be. Combined with her next words, the impact sent her leaning back into the cushions.   


"The birds thought we were trying to kill. They didn't understand, but now they might know something. The litter has surfaced."  


Ranone crossed her legs and propped her elbow onto the sofa's arm, staring as the girl recited from behind her eyelids a scrap of parchment, whose message had been perfectly memorized (down to the idiosyncrasies of Frank's or Amanda's handwriting), before being burned seconds afterwards. Forefinger and thumb came to rest against the side of her face. "Oh, my God," she said, faint, after Rosie had fallen silent. "The children are out of hiding. Why?"  


Rosie shook her head. "The Order must be on to something. But do you think they _know_?"  


Laura glanced up quickly. "Dumbledore? No, no, it's hardly possible..." She trailed off. "Where were they?"  
  
"We don't know that, either."  
  
"My God." Ranone gave an incredulous laugh. She suddenly got up and paced, staring at the floor as she began to think aloud, waving her arm as though addressing a jury in the courtroom. "They thought we were trying to kill her. All this time...we thought we might have been found out..." Overwhelming relief was erased by apprehension. "But Dumbledore wouldn't just have them come out if he thought we still wanted her life--" She stopped and swiveled about sharply. "Would he?" Rosie only watched her. Laura resumed. "No, we can't count anything out. Even using children as bait." Her pacing came to a halt and she stood there for several seconds, holding her thumbnail between her teeth, not quite chewing it.  
  
"Laura." Something in Rosie's voice shattered the silence in a way that snapped the attorney's head around; her nail scratched red along her cheek. The girl waited until she had the other's eyes. "Do you think we've read it wrong?"  


Laura's jaw dropped a centimeter. When she spoke again, it was in a low, deliberate tone. "Where did you get that opinion?"  


"I didn't. It's yours."  


The apartment felt curiously thick. Finally, Ranone took enough steps towards Rosie to push the envelope of her personal space. "Did you read my mind?"  


"No. I only have a photographic one," answered the younger, as seriously as she was asked. She remained seated, looking up into Laura's face with calm mildness.  


Ranone pursed her lips. Amazing. She wasn't sure whether to be impressed or frightened. "No," she said at last, backing away and sitting down again. Half of her mind was still racing furiously. "I don't think any of the Nyormansi was translated incorrectly...although it's not impossible. I just think we may be assuming too much."  


"What do you--"

An envelope came flying straight at Laura's head from the foyer, the _zip_ of paper rubbing against wood still lingering in its wake. The Squib started and barely caught it in time before it caused any damage to the apartment that she could have sued the Ministry for. "For God's sake!" The wizarding way of having letters invade one's home and just about physically attack their receiver was a practice she found particularly annoying, bordering on the barbaric. She had toyed with the idea of stopping the crack between her door and floor several times. It was an expected irony that, upon turning the envelope over, the official seal of the Ministry stared up at her, along with a formal line of script declaring "_Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic_".  


Laura sucked in her breath, glancing once at Rosie before opening the letter and unfolding the expensive stationary inside. She closed her eyes a moment later, sighing in relief.  


"They took it?" demanded Rosie.  


Laura passed her the letter. "They took it."   


The girl read the brief message and nodded. "This is Mr. Longbottom's handwriting," she remarked.  


"I thought so." Ranone smiled sarcastically. "No doubt our esteemed Minister couldn't bring himself to tell me the court order was valid. How on earth did she _do_ it?" she added a moment later, referring to Amanda Longbottom, who had falsified the entire thing.  


"Forgery and one or two bribes? I'll ask her."  


"Look at the time I'm supposed to meet with Percy, too." Of course, Rosie wouldn't have to look at it again--she had already memorized everything. "My free day. Fudge told Frank arrange the entire affair."  


"Probably," agreed the other. She chuckled dryly. "He's competent but harmless."  


Laura remembered how distant insanity had lurked at the edges of Frank's gaze when they had first met; how even now his laugh was always too strained. Harmless, indeed.   


"Well, what do you think we're assuming?"  


Ranone hesitated. "Rosie," she said after a moment of thought. "Tell Frank and Amanda I want to meet with them before I see Percy. Them and you. Choose the time."  


"And Neville?"  


Laura raised an eyebrow. "I guess."  


Realizing that she would get no more out of the attorney tonight, Rosie Hether finished her orange juice and left.  


****  


_Trapped in the nightmare where Snape unwillingly, dutifully killed his parents again and again, while__ the dreamer's cries of denial fell on deaf ears; where a woman stood in the shadows beyond his mind's reach. Suddenly the world rippled and he was in a field swept by a dark wind, carrying a wave of clouds that threatened to block the sky forever and at his back he felt rather than saw Sirius, helpless, frantic, being attacked_ _by the woman with blood in her hair: Rysk, whose final lunge at his godfather swore and cried and sang and radiated death, death-death-death--_  


Harry flailed upright in bed, a tangle of cold, sweaty sheets. He stared about into darkness, and the very absence of light seemed to flutter in time with his heart. But then he realized that the darkness wasn't darkness at all, but a film of cold, eerie light. His gasps were coming as quickly as his mind was racing, struggling between the reality of the waking world and pieces of a fading dreams. A nightmare, he decided distantly, putting his hand to his face and feeling tears.  


Air from outside moved across his skin. He glanced at the open window, drapes billowing on the warm night's breeze. It took him a moment to distinguish the silhouette of an owl on his sill from the surrounding shadows. "Virgil?" asked Harry, still in a daze. He pushed back his sheets with shaking hands and swung his legs over the bed's side. It was fortunate that moonlight lit the way, otherwise he might have fallen and hurt himself.   


"What are you doing here so late, boy?" Virgil merely blinked yellow eyes at him, huge in the dim room. Harry blinked back, and in a few moments his chest ceased to heave. He let out a pained breath and ran his hands through his hair, still damp. The boy's senses finally came flooding back to him, and he realized that he had not been asleep more than an hour; it was only eleven o'clock; and there was a small bag with a note attached to the owl's leg. Virgil waited patiently as Harry untied the articles (his hands had steadied, but he still fumbled with the string), ruffling his wings on occasion.  
  
Purchased in Hermione's second year and kept at home during school in favor of Crookshanks, Virgil was a frequent visitor to Harry's room over the summer, which is why Hedwig had only opened one eye, then settled back to roost when he had landed on the windowsill. Harry opened the bag first. Cookies? He peered and pulled one of the objects out. Yes, cookies. Mocha chocolate chip cookies, much to his delight. He devoured three before he remembered the note.  
  
Harry almost keeled over when he opened it. It was Ron's handwriting.   
_  
Harry,  
  
_

_I'm home. And I'm okay. Everyone's okay. You're not going to believe who took care of us while we were in hiding: Mundungus Fletcher. You know him, right? Nice chap. But he was a crying wreck when he came to bring us home. I thought he'd gone buggy. He said something about we couldn't understand what almost happened. (I'm really not supposed to tell anyone about him, but I guess it's safe to tell you). Anyway, I still don't know who's trying to kill me, or if they're still trying to, and it's driving me bloody mad. I don't know why I was ever jealous of you; having someone after your head isn't really much fun._  


__

_I've missed a lot. What do you know about Percy? Mum won't say a word and I have a feeling Dad's not coming home until I'm in bed. If I can even sleep tonight. You're testifying, right? Has the Ministry said anything to you?  
_

_Anyway, I'm going to go write Hermione now.   
_

_Take care.  
Ron  
_

_P.S. __ Oh yeah, I'm using Herm's owl. She sent Virgil over with a letter for Mum just now and since Pig's too hyper and small to carry the cookies, I'm using him to send these over. They're from Mum, by the way. She says hi and be careful._  
_   
P.P.S. __Bloody hell, Ginny's acting weird. Girls can be such buggers._  
  
He was all right. Harry leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes in weary relief. Ron was all right.  
  
After a moment, rational thought came back into place. Harry looked at the letter again, and this time his eyes were snagged by the name of Mundungus Fletcher. Harry's contact with the Auror had been fleeting, but still burned forever into his mind. It was Fletcher's face he had first seen after waking from a sleep that might have easily been death. The herbal tea scaled his throat and the smell of a tent-cabin in the Alps filled the room. He blinked hard and shook his head, clearing his senses.   
  
It was hard to imagine Mundungus Fletcher a 'crying wreck'. Harry read and re-read the words, _we couldn't understand what had almost happened_. There was only one conclusion he could come to. "The Dementors," he breathed, sinking back down onto his bed. It had to be. His forehead creased sharply. "But what in bloody hell _happened_?" Or almost happened. Apparently, a threat had been averted, but not _the_ threat. He would have received word from Sirius, surely.   
  
Harry absently removed Hedwig's food and water dishes and set them in front of Virgil, who started in on them with relish. He stared at Ron's letter for a few more minutes, trying to draw the answer out of the words of a boy who had even less of an idea than himself about what was happening. He muttered a few curses and put the parchment down, wisely, for he was more than ready to dash his head against something hard. His hands clenched in painful, helpless frustration. Abruptly, Harry rose and dealt the upper half of his window a blow, much in the same manner as Arabella Figg so long ago. Both owls in the room started from their perches.  
  
He pushed his fist against the panes and leaned his forehead against it, squeezing his eyes shut. For a moment his mind raced in pointless, angry spirals before he pushed away from the window and whirled about. He stalked across the room, snatched some warm clothes, and took Carmen Rysk's advice.  
  
He went running.  
  
****  
  
"Rysk?"  
  
The figure in the mouth of the hallway moved forward into the living room. Sirius rose from the chair, staring. Long blonde hair seemed to glint from the faint light of his wand, which lay glowing on the writing desk. "Sirius, what are you doing?"  
  
Black stiffened. "Why did you do it?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You didn't have to." The Auror's voice broke. His shoulders slumped as he extended one hand palm-up in a placating gesture. "You shouldn't have. I should have died, I should have just...stop trying to fix things...it'll kill you, please..." The words were brimming with tears.  
  
"Fix what? What did you do?"  
  
Black's eyes flamed into desperate anger as they looked into the other's face. "I didn't do it," he hissed. "For God's sake, I would never...! You don't believe me, do you? God, why don't you believe me?"  
  
Remus stepped closer, alarmed and confused. "What are you talking about? We've been through this; I thought..." He cut off as sharply as his brow creased. "Sirius?" he asked, in a much gentler tone. He pushed the unbound hair from his friend's face. Black flinched. "Are you sleepwalking?"  
  
"Just _answer me_, damn it!"   
  
Lupin blinked and then closed his eyes with a sigh when he realized who Sirius thought he was. "No," he said quietly, silently cursing Carmen Rysk, "I believe you."  
  
He made a strange sound of relief, something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. Remus encountered no resistance when he took Sirius by the arm and guided him back to his room. The other man collapsed back into bed and fell into a deeper slumber without ever waking up. Lupin pulled the covers up and then went back out into the living room, disturbed to say the least. He scanned the space, using Black's wand to look for something amiss in the shadows.  
  
A breeze ruffled his pyjamas from behind. Remus turned and noticed for the first time that the window stood open. His jaw grew slack; he reached it in two strides and leaned out of it, scanning the sky. He ducked back inside, dread knotting thickly in his chest, and fairly ran to the oak desk. There lay an inked quill, its feather quivering beneath the night air. Lupin touched it in disbelief, no longer sleepy. "Merlin's...ghost..."  
  
****  
  
Harry ran the length of Privet Drive and back twice. When he stopped in his driveway, bent over with his hands on his knees, his throat burned with every breath, the insides of his legs were chafed and itching cold, and he felt as though his innards had sloshed into one liquid pile, but his head was marvelously, marvelously clear.  
  
For a long minute the night and his blood pounded in his ears. Then he wiped his brow of lukewarm sweat with the back of his hand and straightened. Movement in the upper windows of the house drew his eyes. Aunt Petunia stood half-hidden by the drapes, staring at him with an inscrutable expression. Harry stared back, his chest still heaving, until his aunt stepped back into the darkness of her room.  
  
Harry barely gave the incident a conscious thought as he staggered back inside. Normally he would have puzzled over it, but now he was too spent and his mind too set to even worry that his aunt would meet him in the foyer for a tongue-lashing. To his dull surprise, he didn't see so much as her skinny shadow between the front door and the bathroom, where he turned on the water and splashed it over his face and neck.   
  
Virgil was gone when he reentered his room. Harry frowned as he stripped back down to his pyjamas, but not severely. He could always send Hedwig to Hermione tomorrow, or the day after.  
  
Hermione was not vital. It was a beautiful feeling, to realize with pristine certainty what he should and must do. It was as though the summer air and the pounding of his feet had destroyed any trace of confusion: his friends were not in positions of power or knowledge; his friends were not vital. What was vital was that he stop reacting and start taking charge.  
  
And the two vital people he needed to contact, first thing in the morning, were Laura Ranone and his godfather.  
  
Not even Dudley's snoring could keep Harry from tumbling into bed and depthless sleep.  
  
****  
  
At nine o'clock in the morning, Fang suddenly broke away from Hagrid during the half-giant's ritual of feeding his latest (and most likely poisonous, deadly, and illegal on all seven continents) pet behind the hut. "Fang!" bellowed Hagrid, dropping a disturbingly massive bucket of feed and running after his hound, who had turned into a mass of crazed, barking snarls barreling straight at a man across the grounds. "Heel, boy! HEEL!"  
  
Fang jerked to a stop, but not at Hagrid's command: he sat back on his haunches at the stranger's feet and abruptly changed his demeanor, wagging his tail and whining eagerly. Hagrid breathed a sigh of relief when he drew close enough to see who the wizard was. "Remus! Er, Professor Lupin, I should say," he amended quickly. "Terr'bly sorry, this confounded mutt...what're you doin' back so soon?"  
  
"Hello, Hagrid." Lupin smiled wanly. "Never mind that, I'm not a professor anymore." He scratched Fang's head absently. "I'm just here to see the Headmaster."  
  
Hagrid frowned. "Weren't you here yester--ne'er mind, it ain't none of my business. But haven't you gotten t' rest?" he finished gruffly, studying the man's gaunt face.  
  
"I had more sleep last night than I've had for the last month," he replied, filtering the irony from his voice.  
  
"Ah. Good t' hear, good t' hear." Hagrid glanced over his shoulder worriedly, suddenly unsure as to whether or not he had shut the cage. "Well, you've got important business, I won't hold you up..."  
  
"Likewise," said Lupin, following Hagrid's gaze with a fond and knowing smile. "Take care, Hagrid."  
  
The werewolf crossed the grounds that held his most precious and bitter memories and entered Hogwarts without challenge. He walked through the empty Great Hall, trying to ignore the whispers from a younger time. Even though he had sent no word in advance, Lupin was sure that Dumbledore already knew he was in the castle. In the very outskirts of the dungeons, he stopped and ran his hands over the cold stones, searching for one that would open a passageway often used as a boy avoiding Filch and Mrs. Norris. It was also a shortcut to the Headmaster's chambers and eliminated the chances of running into the school's sole other (living) occupant.  
  
Severus Snape chose that moment to round the corner. He halted in surprise as Remus abruptly dropped his hands and stepped away from the wall. "Good morning, Severus," said Lupin coldly into the silence.  
  
"Lupin," replied Snape. His own voice was too civil. "You look rested."  
  
_Oh? Is there one less bag under my eyes?_ "I am." This was an outright lie--while his psyche was no longer so frayed that Snape's presence overwhelmed him with a wave of guilt and shame, he certainly was feeling anything but rested. "Is the Headmaster in his chambers?"  
  
"I would imagine; either that or in his office."  
  
Lupin nodded and turned to take the long way, forcing his movements to look relaxed.  
  
"Lupin!" called the Potions master sharply. Remus stopped and glanced back. Snape seemed to be at a loss as to what to say next. It made Lupin pivot about completely. "A word, if you please."  
  
The werewolf cocked his head. "Yes?"  
  
Snape simply gestured and began walking deeper into the nether corridors. Lupin hesitated, then ruthlessly squashed the anxiety in his gut and followed after. The Potions master led him into his classroom, wordlessly took a box from the shelves, and held it out to him. "The Headmaster asked me to replenish your supply," he explained as Lupin accepted the box and lifted its lid. Rows upon rows of glass vials lay nested in black cushioning. They were filled with the Wolfsbane potion. "Three vials make one dose."  
  
Remus looked up. The lack of any sneer or derision on Snape's part made him suspect that Dumbledore had requested no such thing. (There was also the fact that whenever he received Wolfsbane from Snape, it was always at the last possible minute, and the vials were always thrown into a bag that was too large, so that something could shatter at any moment). "My supply isn't even half used up, Severus," he said dryly, unable to resist watching the man squirm. He was rewarded with a further stiffening of Snape's posture. Then, cursing himself for soft-hearted, he offered a sincere, "But thank you," going so far as to smile faintly. "Was there anything else?"  
  
"No," he said coolly.  
  
"Very well." Remus tucked the box under his arm and began to take his leave. He paused with his free hand holding the door open, halfway out. "You know, Severus, apologizing outright really isn't as degrading as you think. Try to work on it."  
  
****  
  
Harry tied the two letters onto separate legs of his owl, indicating that each was intended for a different recipient, and instructed Hedwig to fly to Sirius first, deciding that allowing Laura Ranone to see a blank envelope would not be a wise idea: even though he liked the attorney, he did not trust her not to open the second letter.  
  
He watched Hedwig fly away, soaring to heights were she would not be spotted by Muggles, and then went downstairs. It was well past breakfast, and Harry was sure the Dursleys hadn't pined for his company. No matter, he planned to eat the salad Aunt Petunia had saved for him. The kitchen was empty: Uncle Vernon was at work and Dudley was upstairs playing video games. It was a very odd feeling, opening the refrigerator and finding that his aunt had indeed put away a bit of food from yesterday's lunch. Harry wrote it off as a freakish impulse on the woman's part and sat down at the table to eat in peace.  
  
"Your mother used to run, too."  
  
Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. His head jerked towards the living room, where Aunt Petunia was reading by the window. She hadn't turned on any of the lights, which is why Harry hadn't noticed her. "What?" he blurted out.  
  
"Your mother," his aunt repeated. Her face did not look quite so sour in the sunlight, Harry noted distantly. "She said it cleared her head."  
  
Harry's mouth worked. "...oh." Petunia never, ever volunteered information about his parents, especially unprovoked and especially about Lily. He retained enough presence of mind to not bring up what he had done last night. "All the time?"  
  
"When we were girls," she replied, much to Harry's shock. He tried to imagine Aunt Petunia as a girl and failed. Miserably.  
  
"Oh." An uncertain silence. "Um...this is good salad."  
  
Petunia sniffed through her long nose. "Wasted on you," she snapped, going back to her book.  
  
Harry gaped at her in consternation for a good length of time before finishing his salad, leaving the bowl in the sink, and escaping outside to the park. He did not even bother to ask for permission.  
  
****  
  
McGonagall shot out of her chair in alarm. "He owled her?" she demanded.  
  
"Remus thinks so. Apparently Sirius mistook him for Carmen during his sleepwal--"  
  
"What did he write?!"  
  
"We don't know," said Dumbledore calmly. "Remus said he asked Sirius when he woke up. Sirius recalls nothing. Do stop pacing, Minerva, it doesn't become you. Enjoy your lunch. There is a silver lining to all of this, and that is that we now know for sure she is in America, or at least was."  
  
"I've lost my appetite," said the witch blandly, continuing to walk the length of the teacher's lounge. "Merlin, Albus, she's dangerous! Do you know what _happens _when you study that book?"  
  
Only the hesitation of the teacup at Dumbledore's lips betrayed how perturbed he truly was. "I know full well," he replied. "Grindelwald fell from grace, as the romantics are so fond of putting it, in the same way."  
  
Minerva stopped in her pacing. "Grindelwald," she murmured with a short, mirthless laugh, reliving her own memories of the battle against that dark wizard. "She could be the next Le Fey."  
  
"Oh, come now. Such unpleasant thoughts."  
  
The Headmistress whirled about, staring hard at Dumbledore. The hard edge of steel in her eyes was one of the few things that could subdue the Headmaster, and now it was coming down full force. "Albus," said Minerva McGonagall, "Never in my life have I called you a fool, but you tempt me now. You tempt me sorely.  
  
"That woman was a mistake from the beginning. A witch...a _girl_ who could perform the killing curse without training, without a wand, simply through a thirst for vengeance! I do not know where your blind faith in her comes from, but I tell you that she has betrayed you now for the third time. She's more of a threat then the Dark Lord can ever be, because _we have never brought the Dark Lord into our confidence!_"  
  
"Are you suggesting she will turn?"   
  
McGonagall seemed ready to hex the old wizard into oblivion. "_Suggesting_? I suggest nothing! She _will_."  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "I grant that she is corrupt, but for every atrocity she has committed, it has been for _us_. For our cause, for the lives of innocents. She has sacrificed herself in ways I cannot order or allow and in ways no one else would. She will not turn."  
  
Minerva stared at him. "You're a fool, Albus," she said softly.   
  
And Dumbledore was alone.  
  
****  
  
Several days later, in the same hour Percy Weasley was released from Azkaban to take counsel, a woman entered a musty, aged store in Diagon Alley. Inside, shelves upon shelves upon shelves of thin, narrow boxes filled the vast space behind a counter that separated customer from merchant, and then even more littered the floor in haphazard piles almost knee-deep. The store's very air was filled with old things, ancient things, secret things once truth, once legend, now myth. Only the crackle of something raw and frightening and wonderful was more palpable, and the woman stopped in wonder, as all who entered did, while the door swung shut behind her.  
  
Her eyes had to adjust to the dim light, but when they did, no attendant had come to serve her. A hinged section of the counter gave way with a quiet creak and she walked into the towering shelves beyond without hesitation. The dust on the floor thickened as she went deeper, preserving the print of her boots and muffling her footsteps. She seemed to have no purpose, occasionally trailing her hand over the boxes or nudging one that teetered on the edge of falling into a safer position. Finally, after weaving through several aisles, she stopped near the very back of the store.  
  
"And the child returns."  
  
She gasped and whirled about, the unseen knife flying out into her hand as a fluid, perfect extension of her will. The old, no, ancient wizard she faced regarded her with silver eyes, paying no heed to the cold blade at his throat. His creased, brown clothes that may have been woven centuries ago was a sharp contrast to wild white hair. "Well met, Ms. Rysk," said Mr. Ollivander.  
  
Rysk stepped back and sheathed her knife, ruthlessly bringing her pulse back under control. "Well met," she replied evenly.  
  
Mr. Ollivander nodded, looking her up and down. "A child no longer," he observed. "Perhaps you never were. Might I be of service?"  
  
"You remember me."  
  
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Ms. Rysk," he replied. His voice was made of the same stuff as the air in the shop, fascinating and overwhelming. "It is still 'Ms.', isn't it?"  
  
"You have a twisted sense of humor."  
  
Ollivander tilted his head to the side, his eyes far more piercing than the witch was comfortable with. "You were one of my more interesting clients," he continued. "A dripping wet girl of the streets two years past the proper age with Albus Dumbledore one dark night, in my shop, in the middle of the school year. Yes, interesting. And now you return..." Grey eyes followed his hand as it reached out and hovered a hair's breadth away from the side of her face. "...sorely tempered."  
  
"You sense it," she said as he withdrew.  
  
He nodded, expression inscrutable. "But why does she return?" he mused, as though to himself.  
  
"You found my wand back here," she said softly, turning away and gesturing at the stuffed shelves.   
  
"Top row, near the very back." Mr. Ollivander nodded slowly. "Yes, yes. You were watching me like a hawk."  
  
She hooked her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans and leaned back slightly, watching the wizened man that was in many ways the only thread between her old life and what she was now. "You never said what it was."  
  
Ollivander gave her another one of those stares. "Yeees," he breathed, laying a finger beside his nose. "Your wand. _That _was a most fascinating sale. Only two others can rival it, only two, and _those_ depend upon each other."  
  
"What was it?" she repeated. The words held a casual, deadly bite of threat.  
  
Mr. Ollivander stepped closer, testing Rysk's personal space. She held her ground. "How old are you now, Ms. Rysk?" His breath smelled of cloves and forgotten places.  
  
A hesitation, either over the answer to the question or whether to answer it at all. "Thirty-two."  
  
"Mmm." That constant nodding, so odd, and so knowing. "And yet not a day over seventeen, am I right?"  
  
For the second time within minutes, he caught her devastatingly off-guard: she started backwards, lips parted, brows knitted in shock. Emotionless grey eyes glittered to dangerous life for the space of a heartbeat. Ollivander smiled a brittle, curious smile.  
  
"Do not worry--a secret is always safe with me. I carry eons of them." He tapped his head with a thin, gnarled finger. "Thirty-two," he mused. "Young. Very young. But! There it is. Why do you suppose I did not rattle off length, wood, and core that night?"  
  
Rysk had recovered, and then some. "I wasn't ready," she replied with an extra layer of ice.  
  
"And now, nineteen years older, nineteen years wiser! What about now?"  
  
She looked away. A ray of sunlight skittered across the aisle; flashed in her platinum hair and crimson streaks. "I don't know how much time I have, Mr. Ollivander." She met his gaze. "I don't have time to be ready. I never did."  
  
"A hundred years more bitter," he finished softly. "As you will." He held out his hand expectantly, and after a moment, she pulled out her wand and handed it to him. "Your wand is nine and a half inches, as I'm sure you already know. Dogwood. Flexible but not swishy. Good for duelling. But within...ah, within. A core this age of wizards has never seen in use, until you: the tears of a dragon. Crystallized. Ancient. Perfect."  
  
Rysk stared at her wand as though she had never seen it before in her life; as she had when she was thirteen and frightened and shivering and confused. "Meaning?"  
  
"Meaning? It means nothing," he said, returning the wand. "And yet...I think it is safe to say that you grieve, that you hurt, that you love, and deeply. Yes, so deeply that it becomes your curse and your power." Something in her expression flickered. "I think that you must, to wield such a core. Only one other witch could, you know."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Deirdre of Ireland."  
  
Ollivander watched as her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, glittering in disbelief, and for one second, fear. Then she brushed by him without a word. The old wizard remained where he was until he heard the shop's door open and close, letting in a burst of noise from Diagon Alley and just as abruptly cutting it off. He walked to the front of the store in time to see her blending into the crowd, tall and proud and fairly seething with the taint of the Dark Arts.  
  
"The coldest child I have ever seen. The most beautiful child I will ever see," murmured Mr. Ollivander, following the witch with silver eyes that knew power not even Voldemort dreamed of. "Farewell, Carmen Rysk."  



	9. To Whom It May Concern

The iron gates of Azkaban were the first line of shadow that separated the living from the dead. They were the closest Laura Ranone had ever been to the wizard prison. Beyond their bars, an empty courtyard stretched to a massive fortress, and there was no sound. To Ranone, it was not silence as silence occurred in the world, but one cry, one scream swallowed into writhing emptiness. The iron gates of Azkaban were all that stood between the bright day and a cold void.  
  
Laura felt a ridiculous urge to touch the bars. Was Paul there? Did he suffer?  
  
"This way," came a voice, accompanied by a tap on her shoulder. The light touch drew her back into the world. Her expression must have betrayed the fact she had left it in the first place, for the guard gave her a quizzical look as he turned and put his hand to the seam where both gates met. They lacked any lock, which hardly surprised Ranone. She watched as the wizard's lips, which were as lined as the rest of his face, moved in a silent incantation. After several heartbeats, the gates swung inward without so much as a creak. The wizard stood back and nodded.  
  
"Straight through to the doors," he instructed, pointing at the fortress. "Show your papers to the Warden."  
  
"Thank you," she said over her shoulder absently, stepping into the courtyard.  
  
"Don't!" Something in his voice jerked her sharply around. The guard's eyes smoldered with warning, and Laura's back stiffened. "Don't go past the lobby without the Warden."  
  
She was a bit slower in turning her shoulders this time. "I won't. Thank you."  
  
The walk across the grounds unnerved her. The attorney was sure that the temperature dropped as she neared the prison; enough to make her shiver, but not so sharply that she could be sure it wasn't only her imagination. Her stomach was certainly curling into apprehension by the time she reached the (surprisingly) modern double doors. There was no witch or wizard to meet her. Ranone frowned and glanced about before reaching out and grabbing a handle.  
  
"State your business."  
  
Laura started backwards, demonstrating just how frayed her nerves were. She stared at the door handle, which had turned into a talking mouth. "I'm here for Percy Weasley," she told it firmly, even a bit aggressively. The door was silent for a moment.  
  
"Name?"  
  
"Laura Ranone."  
  
A longer silence, then the doors, too, opened of their own accord, revealing nothing beyond but inky blackness. "Welcome to Azkaban!" she saw the handle chirp with a Chesire-like grin before it swung out of view. She stood where she was dumbly, torn between hysterical laughter and a definite disinclination to cross that threshold. _Thank you, do I get complimentary peanuts?_ she thought, steeling herself. With the unsettling thought that the only reason she was entering of her own will was because she would be coming out, she stepped into the dark.  
  
The black swirled. Deep cold touched her very bones, but as soon as it became unbearable, it vanished, leaving her in a generic-looking lobby, complete with chairs lined along the walls and a table of magazines. She looked around, disconcerted, before focusing on the round spectacles of a rail-thin man. "You're Laura Ranone?" he inquired as he approached, surveying her in a critical, yet weary manner.  
  
"Yes," she replied, summoning up the disarming smile she had spent years developing. "I need to see the Warden, please."  
  
"That's me. Mr. Weasley on counsel leave, correct?"   
  
"Correct." As she reached into her witch's robes (worn to conceal Muggle clothing, for obvious reasons), the nagging sense of uneasiness increased--the waiting room held no fellow occupants, and the very walls seemed somehow warped; almost sagging. There was no door that she could see beyond the Warden's shoulder or to either side. "This is the court order...and here's the letter from the Minister."  
  
The Warden took the papers and examined them. Laura watched the wizard carefully. He seemed younger than her, a good deal younger, which was why the age in his smooth face perplexed her greatly. _That must be what working in this hellhole does to you,_ she thought, pressing her lips together briefly. "All right," he said curtly. "Follow me."  
  
Ranone blinked. "Is that necessary?"  
  
"I was told to bring you personally in," he replied without turning around. Ranone walked after him, stopping by his shoulder in front of a solid wall. He glanced at her and conceded, "It _is_ unusual," while drawing his wand and pointing it at the wall's base. "_Engorgio_."  
  
The attorney frowned, confused, before seeing the tiny, tiny door that was gradually growing up and out across the stones. The Warden took a step back when it stopped. Laura followed suit. The door had grown to a height much too tall to be practical. Suddenly, it flew open. The same cold swept over her again, a hundred times more intense. Ranone shrank back, feeling her mind recoil as well. It was as though icy hands and icy thoughts crawled over and through her skin, inspiring a fear as primal as a child's terror of the dark. Something towered in that empty doorway, something that watched her with dreadful, hungry patience.Laura recovered her composure with some effort, in time to see the Warden wave his hand at something invisible.  
  
"Wh...what was that?" she stammered.   
  
The other turned and raised an eyebrow. "A Dementor," he replied, as if it were the most evident thing in the world.  
  
"...oh."   
  
The Warden's perplexed expression remained for another second before he turned to lead her in. Laura bit her lip, feeling discomfort flush beneath her fear. "Wait." She stepped forward and touched his shoulder on the threshold. "I can't see them. You'll have to guide me through. I'm a Squib," she explained bluntly when he only stared at her in consternation.  
  
"I see," he said briskly, averting his eyes, but not before Laura saw their shock. "Come along, then."  
  
They entered the depths of Azkaban. At first, all seemed black. Ranone could see nothing and feel nothing but the Warden's hand at her elbow. The icy fist in her chest had relented, but her heart still pounded against it. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dim light that illuminated the stone dungeon they were in. The Warden was leading her down a very wide corridor, very wide and very empty but for the cells that lined both sides of it. In them were the prisoners. Laura made a conscious effort to look straight ahead, but she could not stop her ears against the occasional moan or cry or incoherent babbling. Still, hearing those noises was better than the unbearable silence that came from some of the cells. Once, she allowed herself to glance towards one, only to look into the face of a wizard who's expression was horrifyingly empty.  
  
"Look out," the Warden said, jerking her to one side. Ranone took a step for her balance, glancing about uneasily. She almost wished she could see the Dementors; anything to give that _gaze_ of the shadows a form. Stories of the Dementor's Kiss flashed through her mind. Unconsciously, she drew closer to the Warden. "It's all right," she heard him say, and looked up in surprise to see an understanding expression soften the indifferent face, ever-so-slightly. "You're safe as long as I'm with you." Laura smiled weakly and nodded. "We're almost there," he added, trying to distract her with conversation, "just another minute. So, you're a Squib, are you?"  
  
"Yes," she replied, flinching as a wizard began to shriek. "My God, why does he want me in here?" she muttered under her breath, referring to Fudge. She received her answer within her next breath, as her guide pulled her to a stop and turned towards one of the cells. They must have reached Percy. Laura steeled herself and turned to follow the Warden, then choked. Behind the bars of the neighboring chamber, a pale, haggard face lifted in the far back corner. The eyes that met hers were a light brown, empty one moment and filled with torturous recognition the next. Ranone's teeth tore through the skin of her lip. It was Paul.  
  
Rushing blood pounded in her ears, muffling the sound of Percy's door screeching open. Her mouth went completely dry when Paul dragged himself to his feet, staring at her in a kind of distant surprise, a pathetic hope. It was fortunate that he did not walk forward; she didn't know what she might have done then. As it was, she could only stand rooted and stare at how horribly thin he had become in his months of imprisonment. Filthy robes hung from an almost emaciated frame; his hair hung nearly to his shoulders. Laura reached up to wipe the blood from her lip, only to feel her hand shaking.   
  
Her little brother slowly reached out to her, as though every inch of movement was an effort. The sleeve of that arm fell back and somehow, somehow in the darkness of Azkaban, Laura clearly saw the Dark Mark branded into skin. Cruel claws dragged themselves over her chest, accompanying the numb, humming buzz behind her eyes. It was with a silent but wracking sob that she forced herself to look away and stumble after the Warden into Percy's cell.   
  
The wizard had her client by the arm, whose head was bowed so that only his red hair could be seen. "What's wrong?" he inquired, re-settling his glasses as he peered at her. Ranone licked her lips and tasted salt. She must have begun to cry. She shook her head and forced a smile, its credulity supported now only by years and years of practice. Rather than reply, she turned the part of her mind that still obeyed to Percy Weasley. The boy, who had been gangly when she had first seen him, was now no better off than Paul. His shoulder blades jutted out from beneath tattered robes, and his pale skin was pasty beneath the grime. But when he lifted his head and met her gaze, there was life in his eyes and defiance in his face.  
  
Laura felt her lips fall open the slightest bit, amazed. "Out," she snapped suddenly, the finest thread of control keeping her voice from breaking. Paul's eyes burned into her side like the edge of a knife. "Get him out of here."  
  


****

  
Another letter came from Malfoy in the afternoon. Quick flashes of different emotions furrowed Harry's brow as he untied the envelope from Black Speck's leg. "I should probably learn your name," he told Draco's owl, setting out Hedwig's food and water for him before sitting down on his bed.  


  
Harry had not expected a reply this prompt, or any reply at all, for that matter. Still, he felt absurdly pleased. The handwriting was less stiff this time, closer to what he had glimpsed of Draco's school parchments, but the Malfoy dragon crest was missing. His eyes flicked to the empty space on the envelope before he split it open and slid the contents out. There was actually more than twenty words on the parchment this time.  


  
_Potter,  
  
I'm well. The owl's name is Damion; he was my eleventh birthday present. The dragon is on my arm right now. Actually, it feels quite comfortable, like a cool massage that almost tingles. __ The holiday is going more or less smoothly, it's much quieter around the house without my father. Well, it's always been quiet, but now it feels empty. Mother is busy paying people to _keep_ quiet about how he died. _  
  


_I really don't know what else to write. I guess I'll send another letter when I think of something. Potter, don't write me back. Just return Damion with a mark on his talon. Or something. It's not safe for you to write back._  
  


_Draco Malfoy_

  


_P.S. Yes, it's Russian. It reads, "The House of the Dragon/Upon Great Wings Soar."  
  
_Harry was unconsciously mirroring the expression of certain adults by the time he finished reading, one eyebrow arched. "What...?" It was not safe to reply. For him, or for Draco? This had to have something to do with the missing family seal. He frowned at the parchment in his fingers for a time, thinking. There was only one explanation that could be wrung out of the situation, and it was an extremely unpleasant one: the late Lucius Malfoy's employers were now trying to recruit his son. Harry did not have much to go on, but he was willing to bet that certain Death Eaters were paying visits and dropping letters, and that Draco's correspondences were being monitored. Why, then, would he risk owling Harry to begin with?   
  
"God!" Harry threw the letter to the ground and went to his window, which he pushed his forehead against. The glass was not as cool as he had hoped. He wanted to cry out of frustration. Some part of him was elated that Malfoy was writing to him, was even taking a risk to write to him; another part of him was just as confused. Running beneath it all was a cold, gut-twisting fear, no less intense than his worry for Sirius or Ron had been. He owed Draco Malfoy his life. Ancient magic dictated that he also cared for him as a brother.   
  
Pride and old habit offered just enough resistance to torture him.  
  
_If I didn't know better...it's almost like he's talking to me to try and keep a grasp on things. _Harry's eyes slowly opened to the suburban neighborhood outside. _Like I'm all that's keeping him from following his father._  
  
It was an absurd idea. It was a frightening idea. It sent his flesh into goosebumps, because he knew it was true. Here was a chance to do something that perhaps even Albus Dumbledore could not: save Draco. And it was not only a chance, it was his _responsibility_. Harry's fingers curled around the windowsill. He had to keep in touch with the other boy. This narrow channel was the only one through which he could exert any influence on Malfoy until school began. "No," he whispered, "No, you can't join them." Harry had already shared the bond of wizard's debt with one Death Eater. He was not looking to do it again.  
  
After a moment's deliberation, he picked up a pen and walked to Damion (formerly known as Black Specks) who stood cooperatively enough as Harry scratched, "Keep writing," in small but legible print on its leg. He carried Damion to the window, opening it with one hand. "Go on," he said, pushing against the air with his arm. The owl took off from his wrist. Harry watched him shrink to a small dot in the sky before sighing and retreating back into his room. He scooped up the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, and knelt down to pry up the loose floorboard. The shine of smooth wood caught his eye as he tucked the parchment in among everything else.   
  
Harry's eyes hardened. He had made up his mind this morning, and there was no use in putting it off any longer. Books and bags of stashed food shifted as he pulled the box from out beneath them. His mother's name stared up at him from the lid, and Harry could swear that he felt a beckon to open it. He had to open it. A glance at the door to make sure it was locked was his only hesitation before he drew his wand and pointed it at the lock. "_Alohamora_."  
  
With that one command, Harry Potter damned the Ministry and every rule the wizarding world had ever imposed upon him.  
  
He heard no click; the lid did not open on its hinges. The box remained stubbornly ordinary. Harry reached out to test the lock. The moment his fingers touched, a golden light filled the space between the lid and the body of the box. The wood became unbearably hot, forcing Harry to snatch his hands back, nearly burned. He watched with wide eyes as _Lily Evans _disappeared, to be replaced by smaller, glowing lines of script:  
  


_Sacred lore this box does hide  
And nought but in close blood confide_  
_Three drops to prove you are of kin  
Black of hair or green of eye_

  
The words seemed to throb in the grain of the wood. Apparently Lily had taken more than one precaution. Slowly, as though in a dream, Harry felt for the rough line of a scab on the back of his hand. The flesh had nearly healed over since the night he had first found the box by scraping against the metal tab in the cupboard, which made peeling it open again all the more painful. He hissed through his teeth as his fingernails began picking under the scab, then ripped it off in one movement. Blood welled quickly to the surface. Harry frowned in uncertainty before holding his hand over top the box and squeezing the surrounding skin. One, two, three drops of crimson fell onto the lid, sizzling viciously upon contact. The light from within the box glowed red before throbbing back into darkness.   


  
The words of the spell disappeared and his mother's name returned. Harry stared, aware of his heart beating hard against his ribs. With cautious fingers, he grazed the lock. It was cool to touch. When he tried the lid, it rose smoothly on its hinges and fell back. Harry sucked in his breath. "Oh my God."  
  
Parchments. Muggle notebook paper. They nearly spilled over the edges of the box. All were covered in lines upon lines of slanted, compact handwriting. His mother's handwriting. Harry picked up the first yellowed parchment and gently smoothed it out. There, in rich blank ink, were Lily Evans's first words to her son.  
  
_To Whom it May Concern:_  
  


****

  


"Do you want anything?" offered Laura anxiously as she ushered Percy into her office at the Ministry. In her earlier years, she had spent more of her days here than at her apartment, and so the space was well-furnished with a small refrigerator and couch in addition to the standard office furniture. She guided her client to the latter before opening the former. "I have some crackers, juice, water...fruit..."  
  
"No, thank you," said Percy faintly, drawing on some hidden reserve of will to be polite. Laura raised her head and looked at him. In the brighter light of the office she could clearly see how months in Azkaban had eaten away at the boy. His eyes were hollow and haunted and slightly sunken. The bags underneath them were bruises against pasty, dirty skin. The Weasley red hair was lank and dull, hanging limply past his chin. Hunched over into himself on the sofa, Laura could hardly believe that he was six inches taller than herself. He avoided looking straight at her, and looked at everything else in a dazed manner. Ranone's lips pinched together. She walked to his side and grabbed his upper arm (which was nearly as thin as her forearm) gently but firmly.   
  
"Up." Percy glanced up in distant alarm but complied. Laura led him to the back of the room behind her desk, where a door stood. Beyond it was one of the many favors Frank and Amanda Longbottom had done for her: a bathroom complete with toilet, shower, and sink. They had magically installed it for her several days after the Ministry had assigned her to Percy's defense. It had come in handy many times, as Ranone's prediction of long nights at work proved devastatingly accurate. "Wash up," she told him, "Use anything you need and take your time."  
  
She nudged Percy over the threshold and closed the door after him. After a few minutes, while she was preparing a snack of oranges and crackers, the shower began to run. She felt a stab of angry satisfaction. If the poor boy was to be out of that hellhole they called a prison for a week, she was going to make it a week that would sustain him until he was let out again for the trial, beginning with giving him proper food. She doubted that Azkaban fed inmates fresh fruit or vegetables--if they fed them at all.  
  
Paul's skeletal hand reaching out to her flashed across Ranone's eyes. She clenched her fist even as a sudden tear slid down her cheek. There was no doubt in her mind that Fudge had specifically ordered that she be brought into Azkaban for his own childish, petty satisfaction. He was probably still fuming over how a request for Percy's leave on counsel had slipped by him in the form of a court order.  
  
Now Ranone was more determined than ever to make Fudge sorry he had tried to use her as a pawn.  
  
A cursory knock at her office door made Laura look up from peeling the last orange. Her secretary had poked his head inside. "Ms. Ranone? Arthur Weasley and his children are in the conference room. They don't have an appointment." He tossed a glance in the direction of the running water. "Should I tell them you're busy...?"  
  
Laura once again commended herself for finding a secretary who was the epitome of discretion. She hesitated. "No, that's all right," she told him. "I'll be out in a minute."  
  
Abner raised an eyebrow but nodded and withdrew. Ranone poured out a glass of water, placed it by the plate of food, and went to the bathroom door. The water stopped just as her knuckles rapped against it. "Percy?" she called. No answer. "Percy, there's food on the table. Help yourself; it's all yours. If you're still hungry, everything in the 'fridge is yours, too. I'm going to be out of the room for about ten minutes or so."  
  
There was a pause. "Okay."  
  
"Okay." Something tugged at her heart. She leaned back against the door again. "Hey, Percy? You're safe here now. Just stay in this office and you're safe, understand?"  
  
"Okay," he replied. There were tears in his voice. Laura squeezed her eyes shut and let her weight fall against the door for a moment before pulling herself together and leaving the office.   
  
Arthur Weasley and two of his children were sitting at the long table in the conference room. All three looked up as she quietly stepped in. Ranone's gaze immediately caught on the girl. The Weasleys had only one girl, and that was Ginny. So this was the subject of the damned prophecy that had been pestering her night and day--or rather, the subject she would try to disprove to the others. The taller boy had to be one of her brothers. _He looks about Harry's age. Ron, probably_.  
  
Arthur stood. _So you're the one spearheading Ministry resistance to Fudge_, thought Laura grimly, noticing flecks of grey in the older man's red hair. _Bravo_. _Is it true? Is the Department of Mysteries really backing you, or are those only rumors?_   
  
"Is he there?" The Head of the Muggle Artifacts Department rushed forward as though he would seize her hand. "Where is he? I need to see him." Laura felt pity wash over her when she saw how worn his face was; how desperately his eyes fixed upon hers. She stepped back and held up her hand.  
  
"He's fine," she said firmly, "He's resting now."  
  
"Let me see him," begged Arthur.  
  
"You have to!" Ginny came up behind her father, eyes flashing. "You have to!"  
  
"Please," added the boy from the table. Laura glanced at him, then did a faint double-take. There was a horrible look on his face, as though he would be sick at any moment. She suddenly remembered hearing through her own channels how Fudge's lackeys had tried to coerce each of the children into testifying against her client, threatening Ron Weasley at the last with Percy's imprisonment in Azkaban if he did not cooperate. Yes, then this had to be Ron. She felt her expression soften.   
  
"Mr. Weasley, please," she said, placing her hand on his elbow and guiding him back to the table. She did not sit, and neither did he. "Your son is as healthy as can be expected--healthier, actually. I understand you want to see him, but I cannot allow that. It's not my choice," she added when she saw the beginnings of anger in his face, "There are certain rules I must abide by when taking a client from Azkaban for counsel. He is not to leave this building, and he is not to see anyone not authorized to see him."  
  
"That's my brother!" exploded Ron, shooting out of his chair. Ranone was startled to see he stood as tall as Percy, if not taller. "That's his son! We don't need to be bloody authorized!"  
  
"Ron...!" Weasley's rebuke was half-hearted.  
  
Ron fell silent, seething, feeling his cheeks flame. He exchanged an angry glance with Ginny. Percy's lawyer gave him an understanding look, one that relaxed Ron despite himself. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley, all of you," she said sincerely. "I of course will try to get your entire family authorized as soon as possible. You have to realize, breaking the law at this point would only hurt Percy, not help him."  
  
Arthur stared helplessly at Ranone. "Yes," he managed faintly, his voice strained, "I understand."  
  
"I can take a message to him, though."  
  
The older man took an unsteady breath. "Just...just tell him that we love him."  
  
Ron's fists clenched. He could see the door behind Ranone. It would be so easy to run past her and find Percy. He needed to see his brother, he needed to see that he was alive. A hand in the crook of his arm made him look down. Ginny met his gaze and shook her head. Ron bit his lip hard, turning his eyes to the ground. He faintly heard Ranone promise to keep in touch; his dad thanking her and telling them to go. They trudged out into the halls of the office building the way they came, but at the last moment, Ron spun about on the threshold. Laura Ranone blinked up at him, her hand on the door to close it behind them. "Tell him something for me," he pleaded.  
  
The woman still looked nonplused. "Anything."  
  
Ron couldn't help it: he began to cry. "Tell him I'm sorry." The terrified but resolute face of his brother that night in Dumbledore's office lingered in his mind's eye. "Tell him I'm so sorry and...and I would have done anything, really, I would have done anything if he'd let me..." His voice broke. Ranone's face was sympathetic as she patted his arm.  
  
"Yes," she said softly, "Yes, of course."  


  



	10. Bait

_May 9th, 1987_  


_To Whom It May Concern:_  
  
_I am Lily Evans, 20 years old, born September 14th, 1966 . These are my memoirs and my confessions. Now that I read them, they feel like records of a dream. I might think it was all a dream, except this box is real. I hope that it is never opened, because if it has been terrible things are happening. Still, if you are reading this, you must be related to me. I at least owe you an explanation, and I owe the world the truth, even if I never intend to stop lying. It exists here in these parchments, and may I be forgiven.__  
  
I know that what comes next is unbelievable, because it is a story that has been lost even to masters of lore. But I swear that it's true. All of this is true.  
  
_Here the writing ended, barely taking up a fourth of the parchment. Still, Harry had read it over three times before he brought himself to put it aside and reach into the box for the next page. He found three or four pieces of notebook paper instead, each sheaf folded crosswise and nestled inside one another. Harry opened the entire thing carefully, almost reverently, and began with its innermost page, which was college ruled and covered in blue pen. The handwriting here was messier, shakier; and Lily had dated it nearly half a year earlier. He moved across the floor to lean against his bed and began to read.  
  


_ 21-11-86_  


_ Two names from the Merlinian Age have gone down in history: Merlin himself and his protégée, Morgana Le Fey. Le Fey betrayed her mentor and delved into the Dark Arts, as everyone knows. Only a few know that Le Fey created The Summoning of the Forever Hollow, sometimes called the Initiation. The Summoning is at the center of my entire ordeal, as is the woman called Deirdre of Ireland. She is a faint enigma in the history texts, credited with only the Whorl of Deirdre's Grove and being 'the witch who gave her name its meaning'. ('Deirdre' means sorrow).  
  
Deirdre was once dear to Le Fey. As children they played together and as women they walked together. One of the many wars of that period drove Deirdre to flee to Ireland, her father's homeland. It was during their separation that Le Fey's tutelage under Merlin reached its peak, and later twisted into darkness. As she spiraled farther downwards, Le Fey began to experiment with the very essence of a human: their soul. After betraying Merlin, she began her work in earnest, creating minor spells that would serve as the building blocks of The Summoning.  
  
Deirdre dwelt ten years in Ireland, earning some fame as a healer and sorceress. Shortly before Le Fey completed The Summoning, Deirdre returned to England and sought out her old friend. Le Fey welcomed her with open arms. How much of her warm reception was truth shall never be known, but it is said that in the year after Deirdre's return_ _the cauldrons of the dark sorceress were still and the terror of her shadow over the lands was diminished.  
_  
_Perhaps Le Fey hid the full extent of her corruption from Deirdre, or Deirdre was willfully blind, but it is most likely that Deirdre was determined to save her friend. In any case, she dwelled long with Le Fey. The words they exchanged in the dark of long nights are lost forever, but what was said (or not said) resulted in a terrible battle in Le Fey's stronghold at year's end. Deirdre barely escaped with her life.  
  
Morgana Le Fey was beyond help after that. She finished The Summoning of the Forever Hollow, a spell that would consume the soul, life, and body of a man and bring the hungry, empty shell that remained under her command._ _She wrote this abomination in Nyormansi, the language of serpents that were once familiar to the most powerful witches and wizards. They have long since been forgotten._ _Le Fey was consumed with hatred for Deirdre and vowed revenge. For what? Only she knows. Her agents, spread wider and rooted deeper than any would have guessed, watched Deirdre in Ireland. They reported to Le Fey that she had a lover, Leannan, with whom she surely shared a soul. Le Fey ordered Leannan seized, and it was done.  
  
Deirdre's search for Leannan was frantic. A message from Le Fey drew her deep into the Irish woods. In a clearing, Le Fey awaited her with Leannan pinned to a tree by her dark magic. Deirdre was held fast as well, unable to fight Le Fey's power. She watched in horror as Leannan was subjected to The Initiation and became the first Dementor. It was a sight that would have driven a lesser witch mad, but the soulless_ _thing her love had become snapped something worse than her mind._  
  
_Deirdre possessed incredible strength of emotion. She _felt_ so intensely that her happiness or anger became magic unto themselves. Her love for Leannan was deeper than could be fathomed. Her grief at his twisting into something beyond human recognition was a force that will never again be felt in this world. It broke the bonds that held her immobile and swept throughout the clearing, a terrible power that was all the tears and screams and pain in existence. It created a Whorl, known today as Deirdre's Grove. This time, it was Le Fey who barely escaped with her life.  
  
Through Leannan, Le Fey created a host of Dementors, all under her control. Word of this new fear spread quickly throughout every kingdom. When some reported that the soulless numbered into the hundreds, Deirdre was shaken from a year of black despair. She went in secret to Nyoka, lord of the snakes, recalling that Le Fey had chanted words in Nyormansi. One who had mastered human language, Nyoka was reluctant to parley with a witch, especially a friend of Le Fey's. The serpents, too, had once been dear to Le Fey, and she to them. Especially at the height of her training under Merlin, she had had many dealings with them, soaking their ancient wisdom and learning their tongue. The sorceress was so cunning that only Nyoka had suspected her motives until Merlin himself alerted them to her corruption. Even then, loyal or evil snakes aided her until the day all word from Merlin ceased. Nyoka traced Vivien's treachery back to Le Fey, and she was declared their enemy forever._  
  
_But when Deirdre told Nyoka of Leannan, he took pity on her. The serpents paid little mind to the affairs of humans, but __Nyoka agreed to help Deirdre, for Le Fey would use the Dementors to gain dominion over all the land__. The snakes knew of a book which held every twisted spell Le Fey had ever used or created. The sorceress took great care of this tome, safeguarding it with all manner of charms. Its pages could not be ripped nor burned nor marked upon and their contents could be in no way undone. If, Deirdre decided, Le Fey's evil could not be annihilated, it could be at least lessened. She wanted to destroy The Summoning, which had ripped away all her life's joy. The Summoning, Nyoka told her, was surely Le Fey's most prized work and could not be destroyed. She might, however, be able to remove its text from the book and secret it away, so that least any who opened its pages could not perform it.   
  
Deirdre was not satisfied. The Dementors' souls had to be restored. No, said Nyoka, their souls were lost forever; effaced from existence by their mistress Le Fey. Then, Deirdre insisted, at least Le Fey's sway over them could be broken. There was a way, but having grown fond of Deirdre, Nyoka was loathe to tell her how. It was not until she threatened to seek out Le Fey by herself that he relented. Ancient magic of the snakes could be employed to reverse (at least in part) even the most powerful of spells. Snakepower was nearly beyond mortal comprehension, but it could be done. Since The Initiation had been written by man, the countering spell had to be invoked by man; since it had been written in Nyormansi, the countering spell had to be invoked in Nyormansi.  
  
But while Deirdre could read and write the language of snakes, she could not speak it: she was not a Parselmouth. Was there not another way? At this, Nyoka fell silent and refused to reply until Deirdre again threatened to face Le Fey alone, then swore an oath to show that she was in earnest. The serpents themselves could speak the words of power, he told her, but since they could not remove The Summoning and since they were not human, they would need all of her life's blood. Deirdre agreed. She had nothing left to live for._  
  
_After months of plotting, Deirdre slipped back to England and invaded Le Fey's fortress with the full power of the serpents behind her. They did not go undetected for long, but it mattered little to Deirdre. Aided by the snakes, she navigated Le Fey's labyrinth to the very heart of her stronghold, where the book was guarded by every trap and barrier devised by wizard or Muggle. It was a sight to behold, a hundred snakes of gold and red and black and emerald, slithering around the feet of one woman as together they forced their way into a small room. Behind them, Le Fey's agents and a score of Dementors were held only by Deirdre's own hasty barriers and a battle done with Nyoka's twenty most powerful serpents. _  
  
_When they reached Le Fey's book, Deirdre opened it upon a stand and searched for The Summoning. Nyoka called from the room's entrance that there was no time to steal the entire spell. Deirdre read the Nyormansi and found a part crucial to the whole, an incantation not more than half a page long. This she isolated and this she lifted. She drew a dagger and slit her wrist as she chanted. She grew weaker and weaker until the final words of the spell were no more than a whisper and the force behind them took the last of her strength. She collapsed even as that section of The Summoning disappeared from the book to hover in her palm, a black, writhing mass. The hiss of Nyormansi filled the room as the snakes glided into her blood. As she lay fading, Deirdre begged Nyoka to guard the incantation. The serpent lord agreed, taking pity on her for the last time. Then Deirdre of Ireland cried out for Leannan and died._  
  
Harry set the paper down. His eyes were moist.  
  


****

  
Abner looked up as Ranone stepped out of the conference room, snatching up an envelope from his desk. He slowed when he saw her angry, tight expression and waited for her to reach him instead of meeting her halfway. "This came yesterday," he murmured when she drew level with his shoulder, making sure the postmark was visible. His employer did a double-take and took the envelope from him.   


  
"Thanks," she said, ignoring his inquisitive eyebrow. She made to move forward, then stopped. She had not been able to organize a meeting with either of her conspirators for the entire week; this was her last chance. "Find out if Frank or Amanda Longbottom is in, will you?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Ranone waited until Abner went back to his desk and invoked Interdepartmental Links before opening Harry's letter. She glanced once at her secretary as he began to speak to what she knew was the face of an IL wizard in the small glass on his desk, then lowered her eyes to the parchment.  
  
_Dear Laura,_  
  


_I've done some reading on how the trial works. I need to know what angle you're taking on Percy's case, what the prosecution's strategy is (or what you think it is), and what kind of questions I'll be getting during the cross-exam. I _was_ knocked out, so they might go after how good my memory is, or something._  


  


_Thanks,  
Harry Potter_

  
Laura felt her eyes narrow and her lips part, a sense of foreboding brewing in the back of her mind. She certainly had not expected this. Experience as an attorney told her that this was a good thing (intelligent _and_ informed witnesses were rare), but this irked her. She read the letter over again. There was something in the wording...  
  
"Laura?" She looked up at her secretary, quickly folding the parchment back up. It was not often that Abner had a slip of tongue and addressed her by her first name, despite her gentle insistence that he do so.   
  
"Hm?" The odd look on his face prompted her to walk closer.  
  
"Frank Longbottom isn't in, but Amanda is." Abner arched the eyebrow that never failed to remind Ranone of a prudent, competent butler. "IL had a time finding her. Apparently she's just been transferred to the Department of Mysteries."  
  
Ranone blinked, throwing everything she had into schooling her expression and biting back an exclamation. "What's her office number?"  
  
"312. Do you want me to glass her?" He reached to touch the thin, concave crystal he had just finished using.  
  
"No, thanks, Abner." A corner of Harry Potter's letter was already near shreds as she rolled it hard between two fingers. She smiled at him before turning and going to her office door. "I'll be in here if you need me," she said through the crack before it shut behind her.  
  
Percy was lying tightly curled on the couch, hands fisted and drawn to his chest. He looked so miserable that a whispered, "Oh God," slipped past Laura's lips. Even in sleep, the boy seemed to be recoiling from something. Ranone's glanced at the table. The water was gone, as was the orange and crackers. Percy's hair was damp and his skin was no longer dirty, only sickly. _What an improvement_, she thought bitterly. She crossed the room to her desk, on which she lay Harry's letter, and opened one of the lower drawers. A small handkerchief stuffed into the back corner became a full-size quilt as soon as she pulled it out. The attorney gathered it into her arms and walked back to Percy, who flinched when she spread the blanket over him and began tucking it in. "Shh," she said instinctively, feeling pity stab through her. He was so young. Laura smoothed his forehead with her thumb and stood back. Her client shifted but did not wake. There seemed to be one less furrow in his brow now.  
  
She turned to the fireplace, then rolled her eyes in annoyance. Normally, she would have started it with lighter fluid and a match--she had gotten quite good at that--but there was no time. She went to the door and leaned out of it. "Abner?" Even with her secretary, she had to fight a twinge of embarrassment. "Could you start a fire in here, please?"  
  
Abner cast the appropriate spell and left with an agreeable nod when she thanked him, tossing only one sympathetic glance at the sleeping Percy. Once he was gone, Laura reached into a jar by the fireplace and came out with a handful of glittering powder, which she tossed into the flames. "Department of Mysteries, 312."  
  
The center of the fire seemed to swirl and then part before the face of a woman, hovering in the hearth. Amanda Longbottom had the round face her son had inherited, but not the blonde hair. Hers was light brown and worn loose past her shoulders. "Oh, Laura. Good afternoon." Even through the flames, her eyes seemed vaguely unfocused, as if following something no one else could see. Ranone knew from experience that Amanda's unnerving dreaminess was deceptive: there was a keen, sometimes maniacal focus that lurked just beneath the surface. It was a horrible force when brought to bear, once almost reducing Laura to stammering. Almost.   
  
"Afternoon," she responded pleasantly, ignoring Amanda's odd demeanor. The woman was extremely well-adjusted for coming back from utter madness, and besides, Ranone tried not to dwell on that fact too much. It gave her the chills. "The paperwork for your insurance is done--I contacted the right people. It was just an honest mistake. I can explain it better to you in person, though, and there are a few things you might want to sign."  
  
"I see." A long pause. There were always long pauses in conversation with Amanda. Laura had learned to wait them out. "My husband should be there, too. I'm sorry I haven't answered your messages earlier. My son--" and here, for less than a second, her eyes sharpened to hard, flashing points, "--had his birthday a few days ago."  
_  
Oh, my God. I think someone disagrees with Rosie about Neville coming to the meeting._  
  
"Oh, of course. I understand," she replied, badly shaken. "I have time for a quick appointment today, though, if that's convenient." Immediately on the heel of those words Laura pointed her finger at herself and mouthed, "_My place_."  
  
"Hm? Yes, that would be fine. But my husband really should be present...he's on break, you know, the Leaky Cauldron...I suppose I could find him there in a few minutes. Have to make sure he doesn't eat food that's too rich for him. He is so fond of..."  
  
"Um, Mrs. Longbottom?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry. The appointment. I'll be in touch with you about that, Laura. We'll see."  
  
If their correspondences were being monitored--and Ranone knew that they were--no one would have found Amanda's divulgence of detail unusual. She was always like that; Laura only wondered how much of her distractedness was affected. She glanced at her watch. It was almost three. "All right. Thank you."  
  
Amanda disappeared. Laura went to her desk, shrugged off her witch's robes, and grabbed her coat and purse. Percy was still asleep, so exhausted that Ranone was sure he would not wake for some time. She pressed her palm to his forehead again on a whim, then stopped and replaced it with her wrist. He had a fever.  
  
Laura bit her lip and then walked out of the office, pausing only to leave Abner terse instructions: her client was sick, make him a hot drink, check in on him often, and treat him like glass until she returned. "And Abner, _nobody _goes into that room. I don't care if it's the _Minister_; unless they have the papers, nobody goes in."  


  


"Uh--Ms. Ranone."  
  
She jerked her upper body back inside, one hand on the doorframe for balance. "What?"  
  
Abner already had a steaming mug of what looked like butterbeer in his hands. "Where can I reach you?"  
  
Ranone hesitated. "My cell." Her secretary glanced at the telephone on his desk, the first thing he had been trained to use on day one. "And only if somebody's _dying_." With that she whipped out.  


  
****

  
_I've copied Deirdre's story as best I can from memory as Nyoka told it. He had an old, odd way of talking so  
  
No, that's getting ahead. Anyway, that's the very beginning. Centuries later, I, Lily Evans, graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ _in June_ _with the class of 1985. I was immediately recruited by Albus Dumbledore (the Headmaster) for the Order of the Phoenix. Almost a year later (I think April or May '86), James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black also came in.  
  
I am in love with James._  
  
_The Order of the Phoenix is a group of Aurors (and other people) commissioned by Dumbledore to resist Voldemort. We are small; too many in our ranks makes treachery and infiltration too easy (just look at the Ministry). We were 18 strong last I checked, but now I can't be sure. I've been here for at least twelve hours.__ (What the nurse said). It's night outside. I can see the lights outside. Some of them are cars. Apparently I was brought here unconscious. They didn't even know my name until I woke up to tell them.   
  
How long was I out for? Where did they find me? I don't even know how long I stayed with Nyoka and his people. I don't know if any of the others died and they don't know I'm alive but  
  
God, my head hurts. I'm so tired. I'll finish later. _  
  
That was the last Muggle page. There was a note written in the margin: _University College Hospital, Galway_, and the bottom third of it was blank but for one line scribbled diagonally across the rules.  
  
_James please live please live I love you please live_  


  
Harry sagged back against his bed, trailing his fingers over the lined paper. So this was his mother. Not the specter from Voldemort's wand, not the illusion in the Mirror of Erised; these words and this ink were Lily Evans. He raised his eyes as Hedwig flew in. His owl landed atop her cage and cocked her head at him. "This must have been before she married," said Harry. Hedwig raised up and ruffled her feathers, then began preening herself. Harry sighed and reached for the next parchment in the box, but heavy footsteps on the stairs made him freeze.   
  
"HARRY!" Uncle Vernon's voice was like thunder. Harry swore and stuffed all the papers back in, slammed the box shut, and dove for the hole in his floor. He had just fit the loose board back in when the door flew open. Vernon's mustache was bushier than usual. Harry always thought that it was like a cat on his face: whenever there was cause for alarm, it would puff its fur out. All it needed to do was hiss.   
  
"What?" he asked, quickly rising from his knee, then, "Hedwig!"  
  
Vernon sputtered as the snowy owl zoomed by his face and batted at the air before him. Harry managed to calm her after a moment and put her in the cage. "Keep that damn bird locked up when you don't need it!" he blustered, coming farther into the room.   
  
Harry turned from sliding the latch home. "Well, if you would _knock_--"  
  
"This room is my room, boy, not yours! We allow you to occupy it out of the goodness of our hearts!"  
  
Harry pressed his lips together hard but said nothing. Vernon regained enough composure to glare suspiciously at his nephew. "Now. One of Dudley's games has gone missing."  
  
"One of his computer games?"  
  
"That's right. You wouldn't have anything to do with it, eh?"  
  
"_No_," he replied incredulously. "I've been in here all day!" It was all Harry could do to rein in his ire when his uncle let out a skeptical "_Hmph_." He spread his arms. "_Search_ the room, if you like. I haven't got it."  
  
Vernon's mustache was deflating. His eyes darted about the room suspiciously, then he shook a fat finger at Harry. "I warn you...!" And with that he stormed out.  
  
Harry rolled his eyes skyward. "Bloody hell." Ron's phrase was rubbing off on him. He closed the door after his uncle a bit harder than necessary and turned to lean against it. "I'm going to go nuts, Hedwig," he grimaced after a moment, crossing to her cage and letting her back out. Hedwig fluttered onto his shoulder, adjusting the grip of her talons when Harry winced. "What do you think, hm?" he murmured as he stroked her. Hedwig gently nipped at his hair before settling back on top of her cage, leaving him to stare at the loose floorboard. Harry took a step towards it, then changed direction to the window when he heard the sound of the garage opening. He made it just in time to see Uncle Vernon's car pull out and speed off down Privet Drive. He grimaced. The horrid thing about Sunday at the Dursley's was that Vernon did not work. For a moment he considered owling Ron that night and asking if he couldn't stay at the Burrow before remembering: the last thing the Weasleys needed was to trouble over a guest. Even if they would not mind, Harry knew that Ron's was not the safest place to stay. His friend's letters had been sporadic and terse. He could set his clock by the ones from Hermione, though. He expected an owl from her around eleven tonight._ But nothing from Laura or Sirius yet. _  
  
A second car came into Harry's vision. He started. It was turning into Mrs. Figg's driveway. As he watched, the driver got out and opened the door for a small, bird-like old lady, then went around to the trunk and lugged out a suitcase. Arabella Figg, back from her vacation on account of arthritis. Harry gaped. She was alive! He mentally wrung his hands for a moment, then turned and ran downstairs. The kitchen and living room were empty. A note on the refrigerator drew his attention.  
  


_Out shopping._  
_Aunt P._

  
Harry's lip curled in disgust. That was another expression he had never worn until after fifth year, and he was not even aware of it. The jaded sneer was brief but went deep. _Odd, I didn't hear Dudley wailing for his damn game. They must have decided to buy a new one before having to listen to it._ He reached to snatch the paper from the refrigerator and throw it out, but something stayed his hand. It was signed by Aunt Petunia, who perhaps abhorred Harry more than Vernon did, and the Dursleys never bothered to leave him notes about anything. Harry's brow furrowed, but that lasted only a moment before he ran back into the foyer to the cupboard under the stairs, where he picked the lock and retrieved his invisibility cloak.  
  
Nobody saw the front door that opened and closed without a person passing through it. Harry ran as quickly as he could beneath the cloak up the driveway, across the street and into Mrs. Figg's drive. The witch was greeting about a dozen cats at her feet and handing the driver a few pounds at the same time. "Thank you, young man. Ohh, darling! Yes, yes, I've missed you, yes I have," picking up a feline. "Have you met Dandruff?" The poor man took a step back as Dandruff, pinkish and fat, was practically thrust into his face.  
  
Harry wondered distantly who had cared for her precious pets while she had been away. The summer sun was already starting to become uncomfortable. He looked about helplessly before noticing that the door to the house was ajar. Two or three cats lifted their noses to the air and sniffed in his direction as he slipped past them, watching the adults carefully. He made himself as flat as he could and squeezed in through the door.  
  
The air-conditioning was a welcome relief. Harry looked around at the familiar living room. There was the rocking chair, next to the shelf with albums upon albums of cats. His neighbor's house looked the same as ever, but something seemed out of sync. Harry narrowed his eyes before it struck him: nothing had collected dust. In fact, the entire space looked very lived-in, including the half-empty cup of tea on the table by the rocker.   
  
"_Meow_." Harry jumped as a black cat brushed against his legs. "Go away," he hissed, nudging it as gently as he could with his foot. He was afraid that his experiences with Mrs. Norris had ingrained a deep dislike of cats in him, but perhaps it was Figg who had truly planted the seeds. He looked up sharply when he heard footsteps--many of them--on the porch outside and retreated into a corner, still hiding beneath the cloak. A dozen cats preceded Figg as she pushed the door wide and stepped over the threshold, suitcase in hand. She set this down by her coat rack and brushed herself off.   
  
She did not look much changed from when he had last seen her in the Alps, observed Harry; perhaps a bit thinner. The sharp intensity he had always mistaken for bedlam before fifth year was still in her face. He waited until she had waved her wand and replenished her cats' food and water in the kitchen before letting the cloak slide off. "Hello, Mrs. Figg."  
  
In the next moment he was jerked off his feet, slammed back, and pinned very uncomfortably against the wall a meter above the carpet. Mistake number one: he had forgotten Arabella Figg was an Auror. Mistake number two: he had startled her, badly. Harry gasped and tried to move but found that his limbs might as well have been nailed to the wall. "Hey!" he gasped, staring down at the little woman who held him immobile with her wand. "It's me!"  
  
"_Harry Potter! What _in the name of Merlin do you think you're doing?!" Figg shrilled, reminding Harry of Molly Weasley's Howler to Ron in second year, but ten times as frightening, especially when she brandished her wand and pressed him so hard against the wall Harry felt he was being flattened by a truck. Shock turned to real fear, so strong that it kicked an instinct Harry had only felt once, when he had accidentally inflated Aunt Marge to the size of a parade float. Something in him lashed out so unexpectedly that he saw white for a moment. Figg's wand jerked like a wild thing in her hand. She struggled with it briefly before it won out and dragged her aim elsewhere. Harry dropped to the floor with a thump.  
  
"_Meow_." The same black cat, pawing at his shoulder. Harry pushed it away and stood up. Figg was staring at him oddly. "Look, I'm sorry--"  
  
"I ought to skin you," she cut him off, glaring. Harry noticed she had tucked her wand away. That at least was encouraging. "Well, come on. Have some tea."  
  
Her voice had to compete with the pounding in his ears. Harry followed her into the kitchen after a moment, shaken and dazed, nearly tripping over yet another cat on the way. He watched her as she set a pot of water to boil on the stove. Mrs. Figg raised an eyebrow at Harry, guessing his thoughts. "When we use magic to conjure a cup of tea, we miss the pleasure of waiting for it. Many things are like that." Harry blinked, startled when she met his gaze.  
  
"H-how long have you been back?" he stammered.  
  
Figg fixed him with a look. "A week now," she replied at last. A little weariness showed in her paper-thin hands as they reached for two cups and saucers. "I had to get some rest before arranging for that farçe outside."  
  
"What's going on?" he burst out eagerly. "Is everything all right?"  
  
Figg summoned Harry's cloak from where it lay in the other room. It smacked him full upside the head. "Where are those horrid relatives of yours?" she questioned, leaning out the window that faced the Dursleys's house as Harry sputtered and tried to disentangle himself.   
  
"Out," he answered with a bit of a glare. "Why aren't you in Ireland?"  
  
"Because I don't need to be, Harry," she said pointedly. "I should be the one asking you what you think you're doing, sneaking into other people's houses. You're lucky I didn't stun you--Aurors don't take kindly to people appearing out of the air in their homes."  
  
Harry rubbed the back of his head, where he was sure a bruise was forming. "Sorry," he mumbled. He decided to wait in silence until the kettle whistled and Figg began filling their cups. "So...are the others home, too?" he hazarded when she dropped the tea bags in and handed him his cup.   
  
"If you're asking about your godfather, yes. He's safe and sound."  
  
That was all Harry needed to hear. He must be getting a return letter soon, then. "So what's going on?" he repeated, leaning back against the counter and taking a polite sip of his tea. He didn't know why the witch was drinking hot water in the middle of June, but it was an eccentricity suffered much more easily than endless photographs of cats. "I know about the Summoning," he added a bit impatiently, mainly to cover the unease Figg's gaze caused. "Why aren't you still watching out for Vold--him?"  
  
Mrs. Figg's eyes flashed angrily. Her voice was like a bucket of ice water tossed into Harry's face. "Perhaps you would like to single-handedly maintain vigil over all of Ireland for a month, Harry Potter."  
  
Harry felt his neck flush. "I...I didn't mean--"  
  
Figg sighed and put her cup down. "I'm sorry," she said tightly. "I know you didn't." She eyed him. "Voldemort is not an immediate threat right now."  
  
Harry choked. "What do you mean?" he demanded after suffering a mild coughing fit.  
  
"Exactly what I say."  
  
"You mean the Summoning isn't going to work, or what?"  
  
Arabella Figg studied him for a moment before taking his tea from him. "I can't say more. We're not giving up, that's all you need to know. Now, go back to your--"  
  
"No, that's not!" he snapped, shaking off her hand on his elbow a bit recklessly. "Listen. I can't just sit in my room all summer and wait for Percy's trial. I can't! At least tell me what's happening out there. Tell me something I can do."  
  
"_You_," said Figg firmly, "can stay out of trouble." A cat jumped up onto the counter and rubbed against her shoulder, purring. She brought her hand up to stroke it as her face softened. "Focus on that trial, Harry. This war is being fought on many fronts. We need to win the Ministry before Voldemort does. He has other avenues besides Dementors." Harry shuddered involuntarily.  
  
"Fine," he lied. "Then what about Ron?" Figg looked troubled for a moment. Harry pressed harder. "Dumbledore, he said he didn't think Fudge wanted them dead. He said there might be some third group. Is that true?"  
  
The Auror hesitated. "Most likely. We know very little. The Longbottoms are our seeds in the Ministry, and they are only two. What they've reported back to us..." She shook her head, looking suddenly frustrated. "Nothing. After they discovered plans on Weasley's life, they still couldn't find the parties involved. They didn't even make a move after the children were brought out."  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Wait. You mean the coast's not clear?" He mistook her silence for confusion. "I mean, why were they brought out if you never stopped the assassins?"   
  
Figg's face was suddenly inscrutable. A very unpleasant thought began to take hold in Harry's mind. Finally, the witch set down her tea and looked him in the eye. "I won't insult your intelligence, Harry."  
  
"_Bait_," he breathed, so angry that it made his voice weak. "They were bait."  
  
"Go home, Harry," said Mrs. Figg. Before he could react she stepped back and pointed her wand at him. The next thing Harry knew, he was standing in the middle of Privet Drive, holding his invisibility cloak and desperately wanting to smash something.  
  



End file.
